Hypothetically
by Mad Scientist SH
Summary: It began as a rhetorical question: how would Sherlock Holmes commit the perfect murder? But when John Watson volunteers himself to be the victim, will the scenario remain hypothetical? Pre-JohnLock! Violent discussions & Dark Humour!
1. Premeditation

**Hello everyone *friendly wave*! I'm new to the Sherlockverse, and as my first attempt, I post…this. I will say that this is the strangest thing I have ever written, but I love it as I love my somewhat mutated cat. That said, do keep in mind that I have no beta (except for the mutant cat what sometimes walks on my keyboard). Hope you enjoy my twisted plot. -MSSH  
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**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Warnings: Discussions of violence! Bizarreness!**

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><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter One: Premeditation**

"Bored."

John Watson struggled for a more comfortable position against his chair regardless of the fact that its cushions had perfectly moulded to his backside months ago. His fingers crunched tighter against the first and last pages of _The Telegraph_. The sweat from his palms permeated into the unread paper. Uneasily, he risked a glance over his neglected newspaper at the source of his constant suffering.

Sherlock was sprawled lazily over the sofa with one leg dangling over the edge. Much like the consulting detective himself, that pyjama-clad leg was caught in an infinite loop, circling counter-clockwise in the air. It was a cycle that had been perpetuating for a good half hour now; Sherlock would hold his mobile centimetres from his face and let his eyes hunt the lit screen for a suspicious story in the press, a text, an email, _anything._ When there was obviously nothing, just as there had been in his last twenty-five searches, Sherlock would slam the mobile against the sofa and groan out that horrible, monosyllabic word: _bored. _It was as though it were his twisted mantra, and one might even find the tortuous routine strangely meditative. But John was no Buddhist monk. He was only a doctor who wanted to read his paper.

At the too-familiar-by-now sound of his flatmate slamming his phone down, John flattened the newspaper against his lap. "Bored!" John exclaimed in unison with Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at John as though it were the first time he had noticed they were sharing the same room. His leg stilled, and the cycle had been broken. "I'm bored, John."

The twenty-six—now twenty-seven—times that Sherlock had moaned this word came thundering down on John's patience. "Yes, I know, _everyone_ knows, Sherlock, you're bored! Can you keep quiet for five minutes while I read at least one of the stories in the press? I did pay for the paper at the market. Along with the milk. And the jam. While you were bored, in case you were wondering. So I'd like to read it," he finished breathlessly and found himself perplexed by the unanimous silence in the sitting room.

Sherlock pouted, drummed his long fingers against the sofa cushion, but refrained from one of his pointed responses.

"Right then." While keeping a wary eye on his restless friend, John picked up the wrinkled paper from his lap. He knew his day-off would not be relaxing. Sherlock had been without a case for six days now, without a relevant experiment to conduct for three days, and he had been driving John insane during the unfortunate moments he returned from work for the last two. He had dreaded his day-off. He even asked, _begged_ Sarah to give him more hours at the clinic. Hell, he would have mopped the linoleum floors at her behest if it meant not coming home to Bored Sherlock at Baker Street. But Sarah had owed him no favours, and it being weeks after their break-up, she felt no kindness toward him. No, he was meant to suffer today.

He was just beginning to peruse the second line of a scathing politics article when he felt his side vibrate, and John all but threw the paper to the floor while reaching into his pocket for his mobile. Maybe Sarah had mercy on him after all! His thoughts raced to a carefree half-day at the clinic, where the flux of patients and paperwork could distract him from his mad flatmate. Before John could envision the quiet calm of his office, his eyes narrowed at the succinct text on the screen, and the air deflated from his body.

**Sent 10:57 AM**

_**Bored.**_

_**-SH**_

John glared at Sherlock, whose hands were innocently empty of the offending phone. _Oh, he thinks he's clever._ In one familiar movement, John reached behind the small of his back for his Union Jack pillow and tossed it at Sherlock's head. It hit Sherlock square in the face with a hard _thump_ and mussed his already unruly dark curls. Unfazed, Sherlock lifted the projectile from his head and dropped it onto the coffee table.

"Sherlock, what exactly do you want me to do about this?"

Sherlock's tungsten-green eyes lit onto John's. "Fetch me my revolver." If John had known Sherlock any less, he would have mistaken this for an order instead of a hopeful request.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and while raising both eyebrows at Sherlock, replied, "Why would I do that? We just paid off the repairs to the last wall you abused."

A scratch on the coffee table suddenly grew worthy of the consulting detective's attention. "Because you've confiscated my cigarettes and will not tell me where they are."

John smirked in spite of himself. Although that had been a nasty intervention, it felt quite good to have hidden something that even Sherlock Holmes could not find. "Yes, that's right. Two weeks without a cigarette tomorrow, we're all thrilled for you, Sherlock."

"The revolver, John." Sherlock was now sitting on the very edge of the sofa with his eyes boring holes into him.

"No, I don't think I'll return that to you, either. Funny thing, a headline in here mentioned that people and those around them tend to live longer without guns and cigarettes. I'd elaborate, but an annoying git seems to keep me from reading the article."

Sherlock let out a long, frustrated growl. "I _need _something!" He ran his palms through his curls as if scratching an itch deep in his skull. "A murder, a kidnapping, identity fraud, _a bloody cat up a tree_! Anything but this infernal silence, my mind is swallowing itself whole!"

It was not until John glimpsed a flash of Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown flying in the air that he realised the detective had jumped on the coffee table again. Sherlock on the coffee table never ended well for John or his possessions. "Okay, okay!" He held out a placating hand toward Sherlock, who was moments from a veritable tantrum that would rival that of a two year-old. "How about if we left the flat? Get that brain of yours some stimulation?"

Sherlock glared over the Union Jack pillow that he was now holding and contemplating how to best rip it in two.

"Uh, we can go to the park! Have a nice, long walk."

"That's dull. I'm not some dog that is satiated by the stench of sick in every grass patch and the occasional trash pile."

"You practically mess the flat like a dog," John muttered. Since Sherlock had quit smoking, objects that John had even remotely liked had appeared strewn about the floor in pieces. Sherlock's eyes flickered back to the imperilled pillow in his arms, and John picked up his voice. "We'll go to the cinema!"

"Atrocious. Furthermore, you're forgetting that our six month ban does not expire for another nine weeks."

"Well, whose fault is that?"

"Yours, for insisting that I partake in a 3-D viewing experience. Hardly an experience, John."

John sharply exhaled. "Okay, how about an amusement park?"

If it were possible, Sherlock's frown set itself deeper into his angled features. "Amusing for whom?"

"Perhaps the zoo?"

"Is that a threat? Seriously, John, are you threatening me now? What possible good can that do? I'm practically rotting with lethargy, already!" Sherlock flung the pillow to his side, and the motion was followed by a distant crash.

John ignored the noise—it could have been his laptop lying broken on the floor for all he cared—his gaze was transfixed on the childish man whingeing on their coffee table. "Then maybe we can take a walk to the cemetery. At least that will save me a step or two!"

"Ah, sarcasm!"

"Very good, now stop acting like a two year-old, and _get off the coffee table, Sherlock!_"

"I rather dislike cemeteries, John," Sherlock continued, heedless of the doctor's warning. "They are a constant reminder of the shortcomings of the murdering class!" He began pacing on what little clearance he had on the stubby table. "In the first place, there are hardly any bodies in a cemetery that have been murdered, very dull, I should say. And for the ones that are, it's just a quick poke here or a shot there so that any idiot could solve it, and then they're left to the worms!"

"How sympathetic of you, caring."

This time the sarcasm was lost on Sherlock. "I'd like to think so. There's barely any creativity in murder these days! That's precisely what is wrong with the average criminal. If one must kill an employer, lover, sister, what-have-you, then why is there not an ounce of effort?"

John felt a familiar pain throb beneath his eyes. He was going to read the paper today. He was going to drink some tea, perhaps watch crap telly, and otherwise enjoy his day-off like an ordinary British citizen. Instead he was talking down a madman who was raving about murder from a coffee table. "How would you do it, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze in mid-pace from the edge of the abused table. "How would I do it?" His expression had lost all traces of its former irritation, and his eyes glittered with wonder. "You mean, how would _I_ murder someone?"

"It's a rhetorical question, Sherlock. I didn't actually—"

"No one's ever asked me that, John," interjected Sherlock. One side of his mouth quirked up into a pleased, little smile. "Of course I would need a victim, hypothetically, if I were to murder someone."

"Again, that was a rhetorical—oh, sod this." At the sight of Sherlock's calm, albeit eerie smile, and the odd peace that his sudden stillness brought, John realised that somehow, he must have said _something_ right to relax his flatmate's overactive synapses. "How about Anderson?"

The thought of murdering Anderson must have had its appeal because Sherlock's smirk widened; however, he reluctantly shook his head. "No, even Donovan, vapid cretin as she is, would suspect me. Besides, I would actually have to touch Anderson, repeatedly, in order to murder him."

John grinned back. "No, can't have that. What about Mycroft?"

"No, fratricide. It's annoyingly common these days."

"Molly?"

"Why would I want to kill Molly Hooper?"

"Right. How about Lestrade? Donovan?"

Sherlock wrinkled the bridge of his nose in distaste, although judging by his grin, he was still immensely enjoying the conversation. "Cop-killing. Why don't we just do it under a spotlight? When it's an officer, John, the Yard adopts some semblance of usefulness. They only need to suspect me."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"_John. _That is _depraved._"

John opened his mouth to ask just why a man who kept a severed head next to the milk would think that hypothetically murdering their landlady was depraved, but it was then that he noticed that one potential victim was left absent from consideration.

"Well, there is me," John ventured. The moment the words left his mouth, he strangely itchy and uncomfortable under his cable knit jumper. Of course Sherlock would never consider John as his victim—he was ordinary, boring Doctor John Watson. _Hardly anyone exciting for a genius to murder, even hypothetically._

As he had predicted, the smile vanished from Sherlock's face. "You? John, you're—"

"Too obvious as a flatmate? Is it depraved? Too boring?" answered John. His voice raised a fraction with each word, and he inwardly chastised himself for feeling put-off by such a ridiculous conversation.

"Perfect!"

He was not expecting that. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock hopped down from his perch on the coffee table and clapped two pale hands on the doctor's shoulders. "Perfect, John! You're the perfect victim! It's so obvious, but on the other hand, why would I murder the only flatmate I've kept for over a week? The gears holding their little minds together will break!" He leaned in closer, so that his imploring eyes were only centimetres away from John's. "May I, John? May I murder you and destroy your mutilated corpse?"

John blinked, twice. Sherlock was still there, hard grey-green eyes locked on his face, pleading. Sherlock hardly asked for anything, never mind that he asked to murder him like a child begging for an ice cream. For the consulting detective to ask John's permission for something instead of imperiously taking what he wanted was a sign that he was desperate for a distraction. What harm could a hypothetical murder possibly do?

"Sherlock, I would consider it an honour if you were to murder me."

A wild grin spread over Sherlock's face, and he clenched his fists in the air. "Brilliant! Brilliant, John!"

John tremulously smiled back at his ecstatic flatmate. Perhaps he should have been indignant that his best friend was giddy over the prospect of hypothetically murdering him, but he had managed to bring Sherlock down from the coffee table without the use of force and make him happy inside of five minutes. The rest of his day-off was looking brighter—until Sherlock yanked his arm in the wrong direction.

"Ow, Sherlock!" he growled. Sherlock disregarded his cry of pain and bent John's neck as far back as it would go. "Ouch! Sherlock, that hurts! What the hell are you doing?"

"Examining you," he replied coolly, while prodding a narrow, pale fingertip at his uninjured shoulder joint. "Interesting."

"Sherlock! Sherlock, stop that!" Just as they were both discovering that John's elbow definitely _did not_ bend that way, he slapped Sherlock's hands away.

Sherlock huffed, but nevertheless stood aside, while dissecting him carefully with his eyes. "Very well. I'm finished. You can continue with whatever dull activity you believe will occupy your underutilised mind for the day."

Sherlock's caustic remarks hardly fazed John, but watching him saunter back to the sofa without offering a single word about his pretend murder after being manhandled was a bit much. "Wait, hold on! Aren't you going to, you know, tell me? My murder?"

Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa, and neatly curled himself into a sitting position. "Have some patience, John. I'm deliberating."

"Oh," John said intelligently. "Premeditated murder, then. I'm flattered."

Sherlock offered him a smile across the sitting room. "You should be."

Those were the last three words Sherlock had spoken for hours. Much to John's surprise, the remainder of his day-off had become exactly what he had hoped. Of course, there was no salvaging the newspaper. In his haste to prevent Sherlock's coffee table tantrum he had thrown it to the floor where it sat crumpled in disarray.

He fixed himself a cuppa along with the leftover ginger biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up to them the day before. Out of habit, he placed a hot cup of tea beside Sherlock, already knowing that when he returned to it, the mug would be cold and untouched. He watched two films, both forgettable spy thrillers that would have had Sherlock ranting and raving at the television screen, but the detective sat perfectly, catatonically still as he sometimes would when he worked on a real case. He managed one hundred pages through a murder mystery novel—a true milestone since all his previous attempts to read one were thwarted by Sherlock snatching the book from his hands, leafing through the first ten pages, and declaring the identity of the murderer. Yes, the rest of the day had been wonderfully mundane. Mundane, peaceful and the last thing that Sherlock would have allowed him to endure under ordinary circumstances. He should have given Sherlock a rhetorical question to mull over months ago!

John had flipped to page one hundred twenty-three of what was becoming a rather terrible novel (he was beginning to see why Sherlock routinely rescued him from these) when the bell sounded the delivery of a take-away. He returned to the sitting room realising that the book had disappeared from its place on his armrest, and John could have sworn that Sherlock's position on the sofa had shifted.

Neither observations were of much concern to him until he re-emerged from the kitchen with silverware and found Sherlock unwrapping his own supper from its plastic cocoon.

"John, why do you bother with this pulp?" He said, while holding up the mystery novel with his free hand. "It's obvious that the murderer is the woman's twin sister thought dead in the car accident."

"I suspected," John growled, although he was secretly quite pleased at having an excuse to throw the novel into the bin. He handed Sherlock a fork before returning to his seat and starting in on a flavourful Indian curry. "I take it that the return of your appetite means that you've decided how you would like to murder me."

"Yes, I have." Sherlock's lips stretched into a grin the Cheshire cat would envy.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense." John gestured at him offhandedly with his fork. "Would you shoot me with a wooden bullet? Stab me with a shard of ice? Please, I'd like to know how you would 'do' murder."

Sherlock gave him a long, quiet glare. "John. I would like to shatter your elbows, knees and shoulders with a ball-pin hammer, tie you up, and drag you to an abandoned warehouse where I will proceed to dip you in a vat of hydrofluoric acid. It will liquefy your lungs upon inhalation, slough away your skin until it is a necrotic gel, and dissolve the integrity of your bones. I will then recover the slurry of your remains and freeze them with liquid nitrogen into a large cube, which I will break into small pieces that I will leave scattered throughout London."

John felt the blood drain from his face. "Dear Lord." He managed to tear himself away from Sherlock's piercing gaze, only to look down at what had been a satisfying tikka masala supper. Recalling the word _slurry_, he fought to keep what he had consumed from jumping back up his oesophagus. "No," he whispered to the curry, or rather the inconvenient fact that it should exist at all. He quickly stood and rushed what remained of the take-away to the bin.

Sherlock chewed his lip, looking almost sheepish. "What? Not good?"

John said nothing; he only shot Sherlock a look. _Definitely not good._

The detective cleared his throat. "I admit there are some holes in the plot, for instance, not even _I_ could obtain a vat of hydrofluoric acid without arousing some suspicion. And I suppose there is the risk of splatter from the acid, as well as the fumes...but really, John, it's not good? At all?"

John let out a sigh he did not know he had been holding as he listened to his incredulous friend. Only with Sherlock could he feel in the wrong for declining to die a truly horrendous, albeit hypothetical, death. "Sherlock," he began cautiously, "It isn't like I don't appreciate—"

Sherlock held up an arm, effectively silencing him. "No, don't. You're apologising, don't apologise. Why are you apologising?" He paused, and his pale green eyes roved over John appraisingly. He took in a short breath and collected himself. "You didn't like it. Too much? Yes, too much. Very well, I suppose I cannot rush such an endeavour. I will just have to recalculate."

"_Recalculate?_"

Sherlock barely nodded, while his fingers gently lifted the lid of his take-away, a chicken korma. "How does that tired little saying go, 'try and try again'? Not to worry John, I shall envision a fitting end for you yet."

Whatever colour that had remained in John's expression certainly deserted him now. So much for a simple, rhetorical question.

"Hmm," purred Sherlock after he had taken a tentative bite his take-away. "This is actually quite good."

_What have I gotten myself into?_

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><p><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!<strong>


	2. Corpus Delicti

_A HUGE, EXPLODING MEGA-THANK YOU to all my reviewers, people who have favourited this, put this on alert, etc. I couldn't be more ecstatic about the response this has gotten! I HEART YOU!_

_**Disclaimer:** BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly._

_**Warnings:** Violence. Gore. Hypothetical Gore. Pastries._**  
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><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Two: Corpus Delicti**

**Sent 11:38 AM**

_**John, how amenable are you to a propane-fuelled flamethrower? -SH**_

**Sent 11:39 AM**

_**As a preliminary, sedating step, I should say, climaxing into the actual murder. -SH**_

**Sent 12:21 PM**

_**Your prolonged silence suggests 'no.' -S**_

**Sent 1:02 PM**

_**Would a handheld blowtorch be objectionable?**_

**Sent 1:33 PM**

_**Really, John?**_

**Sent 2:07 PM**

_**Misplaced my mobile. What's this about fire? With your track record, you're likely to burn yourself alive. -JW**_

**Sent 2:13 PM**

_**Doubtful. And while I find your concern touching, it is you that I plan to burn alive. -S**_

**Sent 2:19 PM **

_**Did you forget about a certain shower curtain incident 3 weeks ago that required the fire brigade to evacuate the block?**_** -J**

**Sent 2:20 PM**

_**You would not allow me the use of the kitchen while I cauterised those severed extremities.**_** -S**

**Sent 2:22 PM**

_**You still have to thank Lestrade for having your arson charge reduced to an Asbo. -J**_

**Sent 2:41 PM**

_**What? Are you sulking away in your Mind Mansion now? -J**_

**Sent 2:43 PM**

_**Mind Palace. I abhor reducing my methods to visual metaphors, John, but when I must, at least remember them correctly. -S**_

**Sent 2:47 PM**

_**Right, whatever. Late shift tonight at the clinic. Won't be home until late. -J**_

**Sent 4:01 AM**

_**Islington, Toast n' Grill Diner. Murder, white male, early 20's. Need your help. Please come immediately. -GL**_

**Sent 4:02 AM**

_**John, meet me by the door at once. We have a case! -S**_

John groaned as he felt a palm jostling his shoulders into the mattress. He had been drifting along in the comfort of sleep like a leaf floating on top of a lake when a rude disturbance rippled through him. The vigorous shaking intensified, and John clutched the pillow tight against his body. He refused to let what remained of what could still be a full night's sleep slip through his fingers. Reading his mind, the demonic force at work over his bedside let out a frustrated sigh and wrenched the duvet clear off the mattress.

Gurgling in restless misery, cold and clad in nothing but his shorts, John invoked the name of his tormenting demon. "Sherlock…"

"John, why are you still pursuing this sleeping thing? I've been texting you; we have a case!"

John glared at the red digits of his alarm clock: _4:13 AM._ It had been 40 hours since he had placated Sherlock with a not-so-innocent rhetorical question regarding how he would best be murdered. It was only a matter of time before the consulting detective would relapse into his insufferable self."Sherlock…we've been over this…I need _this sleeping thing._"

Sherlock's silhouette paced away from the bed. "Sleeping is redundant!" He flicked on the light switch, which kindled a horrid moan from the drowsy doctor. "Meet me at the front door in exactly ten minutes. We have a crime scene to commandeer!"

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><p>The cab pulled to a stop with enough force to send John careening against the unoccupied front seat. Wearily blinking himself awake, he attempted to regain his bearings; however, his efforts were truncated by the curt slamming of the door on Sherlock's side. The cabbie, his fare already paid, anxiously cleared his throat for him to leave. John could only imagine how Sherlock must have harassed the poor driver while he slept.<p>

When John exited the cab, he found that the dark early morning sky was painted blue by the swirling lights of police cars that were parked askew in a nondescript car park. A barrier of tape hung around a portion of the lot that had been allocated to a local diner. Against one of the cars sidled near the tape, Bobbies gathered to pass around pastries and coffee. The scent of coffee—even horrendous, oily coffee—reminded John of his lingering exhaustion with a vengeance, and he would have given anything for a jolt of caffeine.

Instead, he was treated to the acerbic voice of Sally Donovan as he double-timed to catch up with Sherlock. "'Ey, _you_! Why are you here, Freak!" She stood by the tape with her grimace accentuated by the faint glow of a lamp hanging over the backdoor of the diner.

Sherlock wore a disingenuous grin as he approached his hostile colleague. "And a good morning to you, Sally."

Donovan made no gesture to lift the tape for them. "The scene is closed to Asbo yobs."

Sherlock widened his wry smile so that it must have hurt his facial muscles. The Yard had welcomed the news of Sherlock's fiery indiscretion and resulting Asbo with unadulterated glee. John was certain that Donovan would hold it over him for at least a month longer than the business with the Solar System.

"Let them through, Sergeant." Lestrade emerged, clutching the backdoor of the diner ajar.

Sally grumbled, but stepped aside to leave them to navigate the tape on their own. Just as he brushed by the irritable Sergeant, John noticed that the side of her face was deeply discoloured. It was the beginning of an ugly welt, angry and purple, that stretched from the outside of her eye to the bottom of her nose. Beyond Lestrade's shoulder, Anderson stood in a corridor snapping photographs of the crime scene. He stared at Donovan from his place in the corridor, flushed and quickly shuffled away.

Donovan shot daggers at Sherlock, silently daring him to say a word. John was afraid that he would; however, Sherlock merely smirked before striding away. "Thank you, Sergeant Donovan," he called over his shoulder.

"Don't you burn anything in there, Freak!" she cried back.

Sherlock walked past Lestrade into the crime scene. The beleaguered inspector sighed while massaging the pale grey bags ringing his eyes. John gave him an empathetic smile.

"I think he'll like this one," Lestrade mused.

"I hope so. He's been a terror this week," John replied. He brushed a hand through his short blonde hair and reflected on the number of explosive experiments, whingeing, and generalised acts of destruction that had occurred in the days before Sherlock began to plot his pretend murder. "If he doesn't like this, I certainly will."

Lestrade gave him a pat on his shoulder. "I'll like it well enough when we've wrapped it up."

The corridor opened into a cluttered kitchen. The floor was greasy with splattered raw eggs, which discoloured tatters of a slashed long-sleeved shirt and jacket. The floor, however, was scarcely any cause for concern compared with what was spread over the countertop.

A young man had been laid against a wooden carving board, enveloping it with his crimson torso. The board had been saturated with dark blood, which now dribbled down the cabinets in thin, branching ribbons. As John edged closer to the scene, a sickening realisation came upon him that the victim's chest had been carved open with long, jagged wounds that extended from the xiphoid process of his sternum to his lower abdomen. Organs—a lung, an aortic valve, some tissues that had not been identifiable to even John at first glance—had been ripped out of the slashed cavity like red streamers from a gift box.

"Delightful," whispered Sherlock through an enchanted breath.

"Delightful?" John hissed back. He did his utmost to avoid glancing at the look of pure agony locked into the corpse's dull eyes. It was much too early for this.

Sherlock hovered over the body and allowed his captivated platinum-green eyes dart over its misfortune. He had already pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves over his slender fingers, which were now reverently tracing the amoebic bruising pattern over the deceased man's right arm. Sherlock repeated the motion over the other arm, frowning a little when he discovered a dark tattoo—a scythe embedded into a skull—emblazoned on the bicep.

"John," came Sherlock's soft call. When John next looked at his friend, he wished he had not. Sherlock was poised over the open chest cavity with his pointed nose nearly dipping into the carnage. Lestrade shot John a disconcerted expression, and he could only half-heartedly shrug back. It would not have been a normal case if Sherlock behaved appropriately around a victim, living or deceased.

Without moving his head a millimetre away from the dead man's torso, Sherlock gestured impatiently for him. John exhaled the contents of his lungs, and after reluctantly pulling on a pair of gloves he ambled to Sherlock's side. "Having fun, are we?"

A blinding camera flash interrupted whatever blunt reply was likely to come from the consulting detective. Sherlock lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at the source of the uninvited light.

"Go on, take a bite out of him while you're at it. That is how you get your thrills, isn't it?" Anderson glanced at the digital display of the photo—Sherlock standing in a compromising position over the corpse—before turning to a frowning Lestrade. "Victim's name is Robert Thomas, twenty-three, sous chef, employed for six months at the diner. Came in early to prepare the kitchen for breakfast service. Cause of death was cardiac arrest due to exsanguination—"

"Yes, yes, Anderson, and the colour of his blood is red," snapped Sherlock. "If you would like to continue spouting useless facts like a cretin, you might very well go behind the door and tell it that it's closed."

Anderson's thin lips spread into an ugly scowl. "Now listen, you psycho—"

Sherlock pushed his arm across the air to wipe out Anderson from his circle of existence. "As a farce of a forensics officer, Anderson has failed to observe the most basic underpinnings of this case. John, if you would be so good as to examine the stomach? The oesophagus as well."

After a tentative nod of approval from Lestrade, and taking a hesitant breath, John took Sherlock's place over the corpse. He flinched when confronted by what he could only describe as a pile of vital organs, and his own, still-functioning ones sunk at the thought of having to dig through such a mess to find what Sherlock had requested in the meat puzzle. Fortunately, he discovered both the stomach and the still-attached oesophagus at the top of the heap, and John felt his head whirr at the sight.

"They've been slashed open…lengthwise, several times. Uh, by a straight-edge pocketknife."

Sherlock offered him a small smile. "Quite right. You've demonstrated again, John that you, unlike our esteemed colleagues of Scotland Yard, you possess the ability to see."

John warmed at the praise. "Ah, well thanks, then. So that was good?"

"Not even slightly." John's face fell as Sherlock pressed forward. "The former chef walked into this dreary establishment, but as he did so, he harboured a secret that he had been hiding for the last six months he had been on the payroll. Perhaps it was his desire to secure steady employment as he concealed his membership—ex-membership as of two weeks ago—to the infamous Garrotter Street Rogues. The skull and scythe tattooed on his left arm is their insignia, although the ink is still dark indicating his membership to the gang occurred in the last year. The tan lines below the elbows more than likely coincide with a disturbing pattern of sunny weather in London over the last two weeks. Ergo, he wore long-sleeved shirts to cover the tattoo. The inference: something happened in that two weeks to reform this man into the model citizen we see fileted before us."

Sherlock paused to catalogue the blood mingling with the raw eggs splattered on the ground. "There were three men that encountered the chef, who was no doubt in a fright judging by the state of the floors. That suggests he knew them, or more importantly, feared them."

"Three men?" stammered Lestrade.

"Obvious. One held him down by his arms; that is evident by the bruising. Another gutted him like a freshwater trout—a right-handed man with a serrated blade going on the asymmetry of the wounds—while a third, left-handed man of the merry crew tore at his organs with an unfortunately dull straight-edged pocketknife."

"Poor sod," murmured John.

Anderson squinted unhappily at the ex-human on the countertop, but Lestrade stepped forward before he could speak. "And why would three men commit such a crime of passion?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Passion? Is that the first excuse your meagre little brains can supply when you encounter more than a pint of blood on a corpse? The chef's shirt and coat pockets were upturned and slashed to bits before they discarded them on the floor with the eggs. No doubt the killers were desperately looking for something on his person, or rather _in his person_. The upper digestive organs, as John so eloquently observed, have been slashed open. They gutted him alive to find a missing object that he swallowed."

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "Dear God…now this is just too…swallowed? But what? What would this chef have swallowed that would have supposedly attracted the attention of three men?"

"Something that they did not find. If they had, I gather they would not have taken the initiative to continue cutting the organs to ribbons. They left, disgruntled," Sherlock bent over several angled drops of blood dappling the floor. "This way." The ends of his dark grey coat swished as he vaulted through the crime scene as though it were his play yard. John followed, and not a step behind, his ears picked up Anderson growling about his "defiled" crime scene to Lestrade.

Sherlock threw open the backdoor from which they had entered, only to face an unpleasantly startled Sally Donovan. "Out they came, and away they went. _Acta est fabula, _at least for the dearly departed. I'm afraid that your suspect—the girlfriend of the previous victim—had nothing to do with this string of crimes."

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Pr-previous victim?"

A flash of blue from a police car flickered in Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, of course there was a previous victim! Do you fancy yourself a parrot in an upcoming life, Inspector?"

"How did you know?" exclaimed Lestrade. "The press hasn't caught word yet! My people are sworn to secrecy! If you've been hacking my email again—"

"Only to prevent you from replying to another letter sent by a Nigerian princess," interjected Sherlock between Lestrade's spluttering. "This case would have been a three, a four at best, but you bothered to call. That says you need me, which you so obviously do. Clearly this is not the first crime scene you have frequented this morning. I can tell that much by the garish rings under your eyes and your men enjoying a coffee break outside the tape. You encountered this exact scenario in the last…four hours, I would say, and I reckon that both victims are members of the same upstanding organisation. You arrested the girlfriend at the last scene so I can imagine your merriment at another murder in a lacklustre café while she whittled away her time in custody."

Sherlock paused, but was met with only a flabbergasted silence. Rolling his eyes, he continued. "_'How did you know about the girlfriend, Sherlock?'_ I'll gladly tell you. As a, shall we say, _enthusiastic associate_ of the Garrotter Street Rogues, she was not likely a cooperative witness toward London's finest at the scene of her lover's murder. She resisted questioning and clocked Sergeant Donovan in the face, which sexually excited Anderson. Otherwise, he would not look at the welt below her eye with such thinly veiled enthusiasm."

"What?" cried Anderson.

"What!" growled Sally. She glared at the forensics officer. "Is _that_ why you've been staring at me like that?"

Lestrade appeared to be experiencing a migraine as he overlooked his two colleagues having a lover's quarrel in the middle of a crime scene. The only person who appeared entertained by the situation was John. He had erased his own fatigue, the complete impropriety of the scene that had unfolded and beamed at the infuriating man in front of him. This was Sherlock at his menacing best. "Incredible, and absolutely wonderful."

Sherlock shook himself out of his universe of sharp deductions. His cynical smile stretched further up his face. "Amateurish thugs. It's barely a proper murder, although I suppose it will suffice."

John snorted back. "And you don't find the fact that he was on the carving board the least bit intriguing?"

"I find it disappointing. They used their pocketknives to gut a man in a kitchen full of limitless possibilities: ovens, pots, garlic presses…" As Sherlock trailed away, it appeared that a light flashed behind his eyes. "_Oh_!"

The smile fled John's face. He knew what that _'Oh!'_ meant. But surely Sherlock wouldn't. After all, Lestrade had just handed him a perfectly lurid, _real_ case to entertain his overwhelming intellect.

Excitement flickered through Sherlock's expression, and he intruded upon John's bubble of personal space. _Oh yes, he would._ "John, forget everything I said previously."

Anderson and Donovan halted their bickering and stared at each other in excitement, wondering if they had heard correctly, if the horribly arrogant Sherlock Holmes had just admitted to committing a mistake. Lestrade whitened over the details in his notebook. "What?"

Sherlock disregarded Lestrade with an annoyed sideways glance. "In the cab. Forget what I said in the cab, John. Although keep the elbow wrench and the gerbils in mind for future reference."

John was beginning to understand why the cabbie had been so anxious to get rid of them. "I was asleep in the cab."

"Then it's not a concern."

"Sherlock!"

"John." Sherlock's sombre, jade eyes pierced into him. "I would like gouge your eyes out of their sockets with an ice cream scoop and grate your flesh to the deep muscle tissue. I want to boil your bones in salted water until they are soft, then burn you away, bone and flesh, and scatter the ashes from the roof of Bart's. But your eyes I want to keep, just so that I may cut them into thin slices, like tomatoes."

When Sherlock finished with an elated smile, John found himself nearly trembling and unable to speak. Unfortunately, he did not even have the opportunity.

"Holy shit." John turned to find Greg Lestrade looking like he had just swallowed a dirty sock. Next to him, Anderson was pale with his jaw hanging open, while Sally mouthed, '_What the fuck?'_ Even the Bobbies were gathered close on the other side of the tape, looking quite sickened with their coffee and pastries.

He returned his attention to Sherlock, who was silently imploring him for a response. What came through his larynx surprised even him. "What kind of knife, um, would you use to slice my eyes?"

"Paring. Obviously."

John did not know what was so obvious about using a paring knife to dissect his dislodged eyeballs. "That's…that's good, Sherlock."

After catching sight of the paling officers of Scotland Yard, he decided to have some mercy, if only for the benefit of poor Lestrade, whose heart did not look like it could take much more. "Uh, Sherlock's been plotting the perfect method to murder me…hypothetically, that is."

Sherlock pulled away from him. "Yes. And you didn't like it."

"No! No, I did. That was a good one, the ice cream scoop…and grater, sure…" John's voice fell away, and he scolded himself for speaking in the first place. For God's sake, he was defending his own murder scenario, not reassuring a girlfriend that a particular skirt made her arse look slim!

Sherlock folded his arms with a huff. "Stop that. I can tell you're lying. You wear the identical expression when you tell Mrs Hudson that you enjoy her green bean casserole."

Regaining some vigour into his features, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Might we discuss the case? The suspects? The actual murder here?"

"If we must!" bit out Sherlock. He turned up the collar of his coat and stormed after Lestrade under the tape toward the side of the darkened car park. It was in this inopportune moment that Donovan approached John.

He did not dislike Sally Donovan, but he certainly did not like her, either. Whether it was her disdain for his best friend or the constant advice she dealt upon him under the pompous facade of her 'concern for his safety', John hardly found himself endeared toward the Sergeant. Donovan did not appear to notice this as she leered at him. "I didn't want to say 'I told you so', but there it is. If I were you, I'd leave London tonight."

"Leave the city? Why should I do that?"

"Didn't you just hear that psychopath?" she exclaimed incredulously. "He's out for blood—your blood! And in a none too pleasant way by the sound of it!"

"First—he's a sociopath, not a psychopath." He had heard Sherlock correct them so many times that even he was accustomed to doing so at this point. "Second, I doubt it would be any good leaving the city. I'm sure he would see it as some kind of game: hide-and-seek, perhaps. And finally, I don't know if you care or not, but he's constructing these scenarios _hypothetically_."

"And how well do you think Sherlock Holmes does _hypothetical scenarios_? From where I'm standing he's got an Asbo to prove he's been practising the bit with the burning. You're mad enough to live with the Freak. To stay now, _that's suicidal!_"

John frowned. "How's your face feeling right now? Must throb a bit—I can bother someone with a first aid kit for a compress, if you like. Even get you some ibuprofen."

Donovan glowered back.

"John!"

He moved past her to join Sherlock at the other side of the tape. Arguing over the details of the case with Lestrade appeared to restore the consulting detective's good humour, although under closer inspection, John observed that Sherlock appeared more dishevelled than usual.

Before he could ask, Sherlock triumphantly tossed him a rumpled, white bag. John peaked inside, hardly believing the contents under his eyes. "Pastries?"

"The officers threw them at me, very unskilfully, I must say. Ordinarily I would have ignored such pathetic attempts to distract my attention, but I recalled your tirade during our previous case about your skipping meals."

John lifted a flaky, jam-filled pastry from the bag. "You allowed yourself to be pelted by pastries so that I wouldn't have to skip breakfast?"

"I caught a bag of pastries that had been hurled in my direction so that you would avoid screaming at me the next time a murderer is chasing us with a gun, yes." Sherlock nonchalantly picked a crumb off the lapel of his jacket. "No doubt the elite of Scotland Yard were unsettled by my plans for you and likened the jam in the pastries to the vitreous humour of the eye; hence why they proceeded to stone me with their breakfast."

John, who had just bitten into the jam-filled roll, cursed the universe that Sherlock spoke whenever he had a meal. "By any chance did the Bobbies throw a cup of coffee at you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows perked up. "Yes, several in fact. But they were over-sweetened, and you prefer your coffee bitter, John, so I dodged them."

John set his jaw, allowing the enticingly sweet jam from the roll overwhelm his mouth. It was strawberry, delicious, and outweighed whatever Sherlock had to say about dissecting his eyes. Either he was going mad, or John was becoming desensitised to his violent demise. _Most likely both_, he thought as he took another bite from the pastry and erased Donovan's annoying conversation from his recent memory.

"Don't tell Mrs Hudson that I hate her green bean casserole," John said at last.

The hard lines of Sherlock's expression dissolved into an earnest smile. That would have been certain death for them both.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!<strong>_

_**achievableformoflight:** Bizarre and enjoy in the same sentence is always good. Thank you!** wello:** muahahaa…I love it when reviewers are a step ahead of me. It makes it that much easier to have some fun.** kitsunewinter: **I will definitely continue! Thank you for such a great review!** Kunoichi Umi:** I'm always glad to provide a humorous distraction from higher learning.** The Random Panda: **I certainly will write more chapters, and I'm glad to have an appreciative reader (with an awesome penname)—thanks for the characterisation comment, I worked hard on that.** TotallyCaptivated: **(blushing) I'm happy that you enjoy this strange little thing!** CowMow:** Your review made me smile at two in the morning =)** Princess Autumnal:** I don't want you to whimper. Please don't whimper! I'm continuing, see!** TSylvestrisA**: It meant a lot to me to try to get the characterisations right, and I'm so VERY happy that you liked this. Thanks for the comment!** Howlynn:** I enjoy the way that your twisted brain works.** A-Witty-Thing: **Thanks for the review! Not everyone enjoys crazy-dark humour, so comments like this mean a lot to me!_


	3. DOA

**Thank you-Arigato-Gracias-Merci for all the wonderful reviews I received from this! The response has been amazing, and I HEART YOU ALL for your kind encouragement!**

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Warnings: Gruesomely dead things, not-so dead things, and an angry woman.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Three: D.O.A.**

John frowned at the unoccupied laboratory. The fluorescent ceiling lamps glowed over the workbench, which was pristine from the beakers of hazardous acids and petri-dishes of blood and other unmentionable fluids that he would have been accustomed to viewing in their own kitchen had he bothered to go home. Not a single slide was present under the unlit microscope, and the seat pulled next to it was empty, _Sherlock-less._

He groaned and flicked open his mobile to reread the concise text.

**Sent 11:37 AM**

_**Barts. –SH**_

He already searched the computer lab and the morgue was dark. Unless Sherlock had been referring to some nightclub called Barts, which John would find both unlikely and unsettling, the tosser had not bothered to wait for him.

"Fantastic," he growled before stalking out of the laboratory. It was only a quarter of three in the afternoon, but it already felt like the longest day in John Watson's life. Not did Sherlock just wake him at four in the pitch-black morning to visit a gutted corpse in a diner, but after leaving the scene, he had to report to the clinic for a shift. He had fervently wished to return to their flat after his last patient; however, sometime between the paranoid mother insisting her sniffling child undergo an M.R.I. and delousing a crotchety old man, Sherlock had sent him that dreaded text. Despite his exhaustion, John went immediately to Barts at the end of his shift while cursing himself the entire way.

And now Sherlock was not there. John paused in the corridor to check if he had been left any additional texts or voice messages, but he already knew it was a wasted effort. Upon realising that he had again stopped in front of the morgue, his blue eyes strained through the dark window and noticed the shadows of three bodies lumped on separate examination tables. That could not have been right; Molly would never have closed the morgue before shutting away the corpses.

John pressed a hand on the door handle, and to his surprise, it creaked open. A plane of light draped over the naked shoulder of the first corpse in the row of tables, and the sight of pale, marred flesh, unnerved John. "Erm, hello? Molly?"

A metallic scraping noise shot ice water through his veins. Horrified, John turned to the second table. The corpse atop it _was moving_! He almost tripped over himself jumping backwards. He could almost make out the undead creature's head lolling in his direction, glowing eyes catching the slivers of light from the corridor, and then in a horrible, deep voice, it emanated a word. _"Jooohn…"_

"_SHIT!"_ he howled. He _did_ fall over then, and while flailing his arms for purchase against the wall, John managed to flick on the light switch.

Sherlock slowly blinked to adjust himself to the light while aiming a level gaze at the trembling doctor on the floor. He lied on his back with his legs crossed and hands folded neatly over his stomach on an examination table situated between two naked corpses. "Hello, John."

"The _fuck, _Sherlock!" John shouted between breaths saturated with adrenaline. "What the hell are you doing!"

"Thinking," he softly replied.

John scrambled to his feet. "_Thinking_? You nearly scared me to death, you git!"

"Then you would have to find your own morgue. We're using this one."

John shot Sherlock a withering look as he approached the table and mused whether this was one of those days the consulting detective thought to bring his riding crop to the lab. God help him, John might have found a body in this morgue on which he just might use it. "_We? _You mean you and these two stiffs?"

Sherlock lifted his head a centimetre. "The _stiffs_? I believe you remember the former Mr Thomas from this morning." He gestured at the table to his left, which supported the victim, now covered with bloodless wounds over his ashen flesh. John hardly recognised the corpse in such a sterilised state.

Not removing his eyes from John's direction, Sherlock motioned to the opposite corpse. "And may I introduce Mr Parker Blake, also Of Late, found dead by his charming girlfriend five hours prior to Thomas. You will discover that they share a common death."

John hesitantly gazed at the second body, a young skinhead whose abdomen had been dealt the same horrifying treatment. Even in the clinical glow of the morgue, where the wounds had been drained clean, John could only imagine how hideous the other murder scene must have been.

"The tattoo," John offered, while averting his eyes from the second corpse, "it's on the arm of the other man as well. You were right about the men associating with the gang."

Sherlock closed his eyes like a contented cat. "Of course I was right about the gang. Although you will notice that the other body carries distinct tan lines at the shoulders. He wore those dreadful _wifebeaters_ on a near daily basis to prominently display his emblem. Unlike the former chef, he still paid his dues to the Garrotter Street Rogues, for all the good it did him."

"So you suspect someone in the gang?"

"Most likely. Lestrade is canvassing Islington and the surrounding boroughs for the Rogues, and he is detaining Mr Blake's lover for her assault on Sergeant Donovan as an added measure."

John glanced at the nude body of Parker Blake and returned his eyes to a very much alive, very not-naked Sherlock. "Well, that's progress, then." Sherlock sneered, and John remembered that he was irritated with his flatmate. "Is there a reason you demanded that I come here? Did you want me to bring you a pillow so you can dream about freezing tongues in our icebox, or some other damnable experiment?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You know that I don't sleep while I am investigating."

"What else is there to investigate?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed open. "Everything, John. Joey Smallish."

"Who?"

"A fishing boat discovered a floater five kilometres from Swansea. Despite being waterlogged a fortnight in the Bristol Channel, his passport identified him as Joey Smallish, wanted for a series of violent robberies and a known associate of the Garrotter Street Rogues. His remains, still sought for questioning by the authorities, were extradited to London. After pulling a string or two, I have spent the better part of the day becoming acquainted with Mr Smallish."

John found his resolve to leave the morgue for their flat falter. Sherlock knew just how to ensnare him with a dramatic twist. "What string, exactly, did you pull, Sherlock?"

The door squeaked open. "I've got your tea. Two sugars, dash of milk—oh, hello!" Molly Hooper came to a startled halt at the sight of a new person in her morgue. "John. It is John, right? I remembered?"

"Thank you Molly, most excellent," Sherlock cut in tersely. Barely shifting his position on the examination table, he extended a hand for the proffered cuppa.

Molly nibbled at her lip. "Aren't you cold? I have a blanket in my office if you would like it." She offered John a tremulous smile. "Sometimes I sleep here during an all-nighter. It gets nippy, and there's nothing warm to cling to. Although that one time we did have that burn victim."

She let out a few stumbling laughs at her failed attempt at humour. John's eyes jumped to twice their size while Sherlock, predictably, said nothing. "R-right. Well, uh, I'll just be…out there," she stammered before scurrying past John.

John sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "You shouldn't use her like that. Especially after what happened with _Jim_."

Sherlock waved away the reprimand with the hand that was not occupied with tea. "I see no reason for all _that_ to matter. Besides, who do you think is using whom? I determined the cause of death of her recent guest."

"Joey Smallish…he drowned, didn't he?"

"Wrong." Sherlock's deep voice resonated gleefully in the morgue. In a single graceful motion, Sherlock swung his legs down from the table. His vertebrae emanated an indignant crack through his suit jacket at having been abused on the examination table for so long. _Serves him right_, John thought.

At eye level Sherlock smiled at John like a toddler about to show his mother a fingerpainting. "Heroin overdose. There were over twenty empty rolls in his upper digestive system. A kilo of heroin coated his innards."

"A _kilo_?"

"Sixty-thousand pounds on the street. The man was a drug mule, John. He was not a kilometre from a ferry traveling from Dublin. It's not unheard of for London gangs to import product, although there must have been a set of intriguing circumstances if they went to an Irish supplier rather than the Afghans or Turks."

"Drug mule." John paled as a revelation swept over him. "That's it, isn't it? That's what those other two swallowed?"

"Obviously. What other foreign object would a gang member willing ingest?"

He pointed at the wound exposing the inner cavity of the nearest disembowelled victim. "That's why they cut them open? Sixty-thousand quid—a kilo of heroin?"

Sherlock's jade eyes flared with frustration. "No."

John felt like he had been tripped. "No?"

"_No._ It's not the drugs. They _were_ drug mules; that presents itself as the most likely scenario, but there is something more. You're forgetting that the chef had removed himself from the gang at least two weeks prior to the murder. It was a fortnight ago when Joey Smallish went for a swim in the Bristol Channel. Do you believe in chance, John?"

"I met you, didn't I?" he replied dryly.

The right side of Sherlock's mouth twisted into a smile. "I'm disappointed. I would have expected you to have been disillusioned by such things, given your browser history of online poker websites."

John flushed. "What did I say about stealing my laptop?"

"The three victims went to Ireland together and returned on the ferry each a kilo heavier—two weeks ago. With the exception of Mr Smallish, the other two would have passed the product onto their superiors by now, so I will reiterate. It is _not_ the drugs. The murderers were searching for something within the two gentlemen before us that would have remained inside their stomachs. Something larger."

John cast another glance at the destroyed bodies on the table, trying his best not to recall the jokes he exchanged with his friends back in medical school about surgeons leaving watches and wedding bands inside patients. "And what would that be?"

"I intend to find out before they attack again. The fact that they have struck twice with such ferocity indicates that they have not yet found it. Therefore there will be more victims. I find it will be as simple as determining which of the Rogues moonlighted as drug mules." With a full smile, he added, "And if I do find a Rolex, Doctor, I will return it to you with some suspicion."

A dry laugh escaped John before he could remember his morbid surroundings. As he fought for control of himself, a thought crossed his mind. "They were mates, weren't they?"

One of Sherlock's eyebrows arched into a stray black curl. "They?"

"Smallish and Robert Thomas. He must have been on the ferry when Smallish died, and having to act fast, the others kicked him into the sea. That must have been why he quit the Rogues immediately after."

A wrinkle creased Sherlock's forehead, and John felt a thrill leap through his torso at having found something that the consulting detective had not seen. "Seriously…you didn't think of that? Sherlock, how would you feel if _I_ died in front of you?"

"How would I _feel_?" Sherlock spat out the last word like it had burnt his tongue.

John rolled his eyes. "Yes you bloody Vulcan! I asked you about feelings, or _emoticons,_ as they are known in your preferred language. How would you feel if I died in front of you?"

Despite having the freedom to move in almost any direction in the morgue, Sherlock had the appearance of a trapped animal. Varying degrees of confusion and even a glint of indignation flickered over his face. Then, only briefly, John glimpsed the same hurt expression he recalled on Sherlock's features the night at the pool when he had been forced to be Jim Moriarty's voice box.

Sherlock swiftly flashed him an artificial smile that erased all traces of his vulnerability. "I suppose it depends on the manner in which you die. It would be a travesty if it were something as banal as a gunshot or a stabbing."

"Right," said John bitterly. "Wouldn't want my death to bore you."

"Exactly. Now if you would care to join me, I will be extracting the empty heroin rolls from Mr Smallish for further examination." Sherlock crossed the morgue to the refrigerated cabinets and pulled one in the middle open by half a centimetre. At once, the air flooded with the damp stench of decomposing flesh.

John steeled the contents of his stomach. "No, I don't think I will. You and two corpses is quite enough for one day, I think."

Immune to the spectacularly horrible odour emanating from the body, Sherlock kept his hand clasped over the cabinet handle. "Problem?"

John chewed the inside of his cheek. Of course there was a problem. Sherlock, as always, was an insensitive, amoral contradiction. He also knew that it was not worth his time to vent his frustrations to the detective, especially since time was a commodity he needed this evening. "Not at all. In fact, I have a date tonight."

Sherlock shut the cabinet door with a heavy thud. "I would suppose this was the reason for your supposedly misplaced mobile yesterday afternoon?" He paused at John's flushed confirmation. "In any case, that's irrelevant. What I do recall, however, is you foreswearing all romantic activities during a case following the completely preventable incident with the boa constrictor."

"By 'completely preventable' you mean altogether avoidable if you had not let loose the murder-snake in our flat," John growled back. "We made the plans yesterday, before the case, and I intend to keep them. So don't follow me. Don't do anything, actually."

"Where are you going?" called Sherlock as John turned to the morgue door.

"Home!" he shouted. He then liberated himself from the corpse-riddled room and its sickly aromas.

"Murder-snake," muttered Sherlock to the nearest corpse. "_Please._"

* * *

><p>John had actually lost his mobile the day before. He was puzzled when he sat down in his office at the clinic, flipped open the phone—undoubtedly the correct make and model—and found that it was not his. It was a pleasant surprise discovering that the true owner was a striking therapeutic masseuse who had come to the clinic every Thursday to offer her services. When she called him with his own mobile to arrange the exchange after lunch, it naturally evolved from there.<p>

He did not expect a beautiful, dark-eyed woman like Kristie—_a masseuse!_—to agree to dinner with a short, funny man like himself, but when she did, he was ecstatic. He would not be letting his depraved flatmate ruin this one. No crossbows, abductions, boa constrictors, and goat livers in the bedroom; John would have none of that, absolutely not.

"John?" Kristie jostled him to the present, in which they were both seated at the corner of a Greek restaurant. He blinked and looked at her over his wineglass. She was truly beautiful in a green dress, truly…concerned. "John, are you well? You're stabbing your leg with a spoon."

John glanced down at the piece of steel he was currently attempting to drive through his trouser leg. "Ah, brilliant. I'm just brilliant. And did you have a lovely day?"

She stared at him oddly, but nonetheless began to rattle off the details of her most likely corpse-free day. John listened half-heartedly, nodding at the appropriate times, when a sudden vibration from his mobile tore down his illusion of normality.

**Sent 7:19 PM**

_**Heroin overdose not accidental. Found pinpricks in each of the 21 rolls from victim's stomach. Premeditated murder. –S**_

Kristie's voice weakly tethered him to the restaurant. "…and I suppose it _is_ a natural bodily reaction, but really John, the boy was six. Six, and I bet he hadn't…"

The mobile vibrated again, and John lost a thirty-second battle of wills before glancing down at the lit screen.

**Sent 7:21 PM**

_**I find this sort of death intriguing. Do you John? –S**_

"…so there the boy is crying, and his Mum goes and screams at me that I'm a paedo!"

"Wait, w-what?"

Kristie crossed her dainty arms. "You haven't been listening to a word, have you? What's so important then?"

John sighed and deleted the messages. "Sorry, no. I haven't been listening. I promise though, I'll stop. This," he gestured at the mobile before placing it face down on the table, "isn't more important to me, right now, than this moment."

Her expression softened by a fraction, and he took this as an opening. "Would you like to order some dessert? It looks as though you've had a difficult day, and I would have to lobotomise myself to forget the details of mine."

"Then let's end it, Doctor." His face fell, but she smiled. "And let's go to my flat for a cuppa instead."

While he flagged down a waiter for the bill, the phone buzzed against the table.

**Sent 7:26 PM**

_**I suppose not. –S**_

John could not believe his splendid luck. One moment he was witnessing his own date careening into a fiery demise and the next, he was in a sitting room feeling his heartbeat tremor as Kristie undid the buttons of his shirt. She did not even flinch when she saw the spidery lines of the scar on his shoulder; she merely ghosted her long nails over it past the contours of his deltoids.

She grinned at him salaciously. "Your muscles are tight. Perhaps you'll do with a massage?" His eyes widened, and his heart thrummed out of control. "Go on, lie down. The bedroom's the second door on the right. I will be right in with some _warming oils._"

He lifted himself off the sofa after a parting kiss and stumbled down the corridor. He had not engaged in _any _physical relations since he had broken up with Sarah, unless one were to count the time he tackled Sherlock to the floor for preserving eyeballs in his jam—which John very pointedly _did not_ count. But now he was about to get off with a _masseuse,_ and a stunningly attractive one at that. John made a mental note to ignore his mobile, wherever it was now, during all of his future dates if this was to be the result.

He pushed open the door to her perfumed room (orchids), and sat himself on the edge of a plush bed. God, he had almost forgotten what it was like to lie on a woman's bed! Any moment now she would walk through that door, with wonderful oil, with a beautiful smile, and whisper his name.

The last thing that John expected was Kristie to let out a blood-curdling shriek. A soldier's instinct overwhelmed him as he burst through the bedroom door and sprinted through the hallway. "What! What is it! Are you okay?"

Kristie stood trembling in the middle of the sitting room next to a broken bottle of massage oil. Despite the oil pooling past her stocking feet, her sole focus was the mobile that her shaking hand held in the air. "I-I…the mobile. I thought…it was mine again. Like last time. Thought I had messages when I heard…it vibrate."

John blanched. "Oh no. Oh hell no."

Her dark brown eyes focused on his. "John! You need to read these. They're _sick!_ Oh…_oh god, John!_" Before Kristie could dissolve into tears, John wrapped an arm around her and gently took the phone from her quivering fingers. Already having a feeling gnawing at his stomach at what he was about to read, he flipped it open.

**Sent 8:00 PM**

_**John, you are ignoring me. –S**_

**Sent 8:11 PM**

_**John. –S**_

**Sent 8:24 PM**

_**John…-S**_

**Sent 8:31 PM**

_**John, I would like to drive rail spikes into your femurs with a German Hammer. I want to drill screws into the outer centimetres of the muscle tissue of your arms and the floor. -S**_

**Sent 8:32 PM**

_**I would then depress 100-kilo weights over your hands and feet, until I have effectively crushed the underlying bone structure into shapeless flesh. –S**_

**Sent 8:33 PM**

**_Then I would seal you in the room. Even after decomposition and your skeleton is removed, the oils of your body will leave your imprint, so that I will know you remained there. -S_**

John felt chills rain down his spine, yet his face was hot as he read the last text. "Kristie, I should probably explain to you that—"

She looked up from his shoulder with glimmering eyes that wept dark, messy lines of mascara. "He's the same bloke who texted you about the blowtorches, isn't he? I didn't think…Shit, John! Why does he want to kill you?"

"You read that? Well, uh, no, it's not like that. You see—"

"Oh! And what if he followed you _here!_" She tore away from John's chest and seized a wooden chair. "John, shutter the windows! I'll secure the front door and call 999!"

"No! Really!" pled John, but his frightened love interest had already propped the chair against the doorknob. The situation was spiralling out of control; even if Sherlock was not there, he still possessed the uncanny ability to cause mayhem.

The mobile vibrated again, and Kristie turned to him with enormous, reddened eyes. "Oh god! What does that one say?"

When his eyes flickered over the glowing mobile, he felt something twist in his abdomen. "Oh no."

Before he could stop her, Kristie had stolen the mobile out of his hand. "'_We are out of milk again._ _–S,'_" she read aloud. A look of confusion fell over her large eyes. "What the hell is this, John?"

There was no recovering from this. Rage poured over her face as she threw the mobile at his chest. "Sick pervert!"

"He's unusual and pretty eccentric, yeah, but I wouldn't say he's a pervert!" John paused and reanalysed the situation. "You meant me, didn't you?"

Before he knew it, John was trudging down the stoop with his ears ringing and his face slapped raw. There went the evening. A familiar vibration whirred through his trouser pocket, and groaning aloud, John checked his traitorous mobile.

**Sent 8:46 PM**

_**Did you like that one? –S**_

**Sent 8:48 PM**

_**NO! –J**_

**Sent 8:49 PM**

**=( -S**

In contempt of the exasperation he had for Sherlock, John laughed at the text. Perhaps their conversation about expressing feelings had sunk in at some level. John shut off his mobile and started down the road for the nearest pub.

"Bloody sociopath."

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><p><em><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!<strong>_

_**To My LOVELY-LOVE-LOVE Reviewers:**_

_**TSylvestrisA: **__Twisted, bizarre and wonderful in the same sentence make me so insanely happy. I imagine it will take him a while, during which time a few wacky misunderstandings are likely to ensue…__**CharmingKarma: **__I can see you were quite brilliant at that game =) Your review had me giggling and feeling just awesome, so thank you so much.__** Princess Autumnal: **__I agree. Dark humour=win in BBC Sherlock. I'm happy that you like mine. Thank you for your reviews!__** Kunoichi Umi: **__Much love for your reviews! And thank you for commenting on my Sherlock-tangent.__** Anonymous: **__Thank you, Anon! I'm glad you liked my characterisation—that's the biggest compliment I feel I can get in this fan-verse =)__** Redbelladonna:**__ Your high school experience sounds way more awesome than mine. I'm jealous now.__** ViciousHerring: **__Thank you! And it's good to hear that you've got some friends you can count on to drain your blood when times get rough. I'll definitely be continuing, your review helps a lot!__** ladypredator: **__Well put, LOL. Poor Lestrade indeed, and poor unsuspecting John.__** meredithriddle: **__Thank you so much for your reviews, they make me blush! All I can say is that when the xiphoid fits...and that I can think of several ways to implement a garlic press as a torture device.__** Howlynn: **__Thanks for your long review! You've raised an excellent question, which goes to the heart of the story—as the hypotheticals continue, how is John going to cope with them? My idea was to have Sherlock construct the most intricate, creative death possible for him, and thus far John accepts it as one of Sherlock's quirks. However, as it continues, John will no doubt get more exasperated with the situation (especially after this chapter). That will lead to some fun times…hehe, elbow wrench…__** OkamiLupus: **__Thanx for reviewing! Oh I have several chapters still planned. It won't end so soon, I'm having far too much fun.__** CowMow: **__I am very happy you like this bizarre freakish thing. It's continuing, I'll update as often as I can. Thanks for your review, I really enjoy reading them!_


	4. Felony Assault

**Have I mentioned how happy everyone who has reviewed/favourited this story has made me? I'll say it again: everyone who has reviewed/favourited this story has made me happy! I love you people! This chapter was not easy to write. I blame the horrible sickness I was afflicted with this week. Damn the plague!**

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Warnings: Irritable John. Poor grammar. Offensive, homophobic language!**

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><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Four: Felony Assault**

A shrill melody splintered his skull. Violin notes leapt up and down the music staff like demons dancing and poking their sharpened forks at the coal pit that was his hung-over brain. The discordant tune tantalised and tormented with every unforgiving saw of the bow until he was certain it were his bones in place of those agonised strings wrapped around the pegs. It was thus how John found himself dragged from his slumber by the cruelty of violin music.

His vision flooded with a hurtful flash of light as he parted his eyelids, and after groping his immediate vicinity, John concluded that he had fallen asleep on the sitting room sofa. The memory of his failed date and the rampant all-nighter at a pub descended on him. While John cringed at his excruciating recollection, he suffered furthermore as every measure of the violin pierced his eardrums.

_To hell with Tchaikovsky and his bitchy symphonies, the prick_, John thought with a groan.

"Shostakovich, actually," corrected Sherlock before John realised had unwittingly voiced his thoughts. "_Violin Concerto No. 1_, 2nd Movement."

John suppressed a whimper as he forced himself into a sitting position. "Must you attempt murder on your violin so early in the morning? And here? I was sleeping!"

"Evidently, yes. The acoustics are rubbish in my bedroom, and as I've recently discovered, worse in yours." He angled the hair of his bow against the strings and a high pitch keened through the air. "Besides it's a quarter to three in the afternoon."

John jolted awake from his stupor. "_Three_—the afternoon! Shit, Sherlock! Why didn't you—the clinic opened seven hours ago and Sarah's going to—"

The violin shrieked as Sherlock dragged the bow savagely across the strings to drown out his babbling. "_Saturday_," he chided. Blissful silence permeated the room, and Sherlock set his violin aside. "Really, John, your argument espousing the restorative properties of sleep is not very convincing when you are only a step above the drooling lump you were five minutes ago."

"I don't _drool_ in my sleep," John replied. He then remembered precisely why he was not waking against the delightful curves of a woman. He glared at Sherlock; the man had the maddening cock-blocking abilities of a 70-year old Irish nun. "I'm angry with you."

The detective gazed back at him as if he had said something as inconsequential as 'it's overcast outside'. John forced out a ragged breath. "Care to guess why?"

"Hmm, no. Although judging by the way your nostrils are flaring, I suppose I have little choice in the matter." Sherlock flopped down in his green armchair. "This isn't about the scarab beetles, is it?"

"_The what?_"

Sherlock brightened. "No? Never mind, then."

"No, you mad bastard! Has it ever occurred to that twisted mind of yours to add a 'just kidding' or "not really" whenever you text me about smashing my legs or setting me on fire!"

"Why would I do that?"

John's expression darkened. "You _know_ why. Dammit, Sherlock. She was a masseuse! A therapeutic masseuse! You couldn't wait several hours to murder me by text?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I did not know; I inferred. There's a faint bruise on your right cheek, and knowing that at your worst you cannot even be called a forward man, I assumed your date had an unfavourable resolution due to an external influence."

A silence drifted between them before John launched his arms into the air. "She was a _masseuse_, Sherlock_!_"

Sherlock frowned back. "Is the repetition of that particular phrase supposed to be important?"

"Deduce it! Better yet, stop interfering with my dates!"

He pondered this for a moment. "Do you want a massage?"

John sunk back to the wrinkled sofa in defeat. Sometimes there was no reaching Sherlock Holmes. "No, Sherlock. I do not want a massage."

A trace of relief fell over him. "I see. Acupuncture is more my area, anyway." A glint shimmered in his sage-grey eyes, and he clasped his hands beneath his chin. "So obvious, now that I think of it. There are 360 pressure points in the human body, although I would argue the number is far greater. John, I would like to—"

"No Sherlock. _No._"

His face fell. "But you haven't allowed me to—"

"No, just stop. You have a case, and by the way you were abusing your violin just now, you're enjoying it. Why are you still bothering with this pretend murder?"

"I still haven't narrowed down the perfect method to kill you, John. It's most annoying."

"_Hypothetically_ you mean," corrected John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. _Hypothetically_, I find it annoying."

He raised his eyebrows. Sherlock was doing this to annoy him, no doubt; he could not seriously have abandoned the premise that murdering him was a strictly hypothetical situation. Despite John's efforts to block it, Sally Donovan's smug voice skittered through his thoughts. _How well do you think Sherlock Holmes does hypothetical scenarios?_

"For the record I don't want to be dissolved in acid, have my eyeballs gouged out or rot in a sealed room somewhere."

"Good! Then you understand my dilemma!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Your death must be perfect! How can it be perfect? And John, _do not_ say sleeping pills or such nonsense. It's so mundane that, so help me, I will put myself out of my own misery with them if that's the case!"

"I'm going to count my sleeping medication in the washroom," John replied suspiciously. "But I really don't believe you understand the meaning of the phrase, _rhetorical question_, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot up from his armchair, and a look of desperation advanced over his pale features. "What do you mean I don't understand, when it's _you_ who has not understood a single word that I've been saying? Are you really that dense? Even the skull would have discerned it by now if it was not collecting dust in Mrs Hudson's closet!"

"Understand what? What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at him with an amalgamation of confusion and exasperation before throwing himself back onto the armchair, and he said nothing further on the subject. John's hangover reminded him of its presence with a throbbing ache behind the eyes. In no mood to unravel the strange workings of his infuriating friend, he tottered to the loo for some ibuprofen.

"Take a bath while you're in there," Sherlock ordered in a low voice. "We will be returning to Islington tonight—the Savage Serpent. I understand that it's a congregation spot for the more unsavoury clientele of the borough."

John whipped around from the bathroom door. "Are you mental? No, never mind that, of course you are. I thought you said at the morgue that the Yard was tracking the gangsters!"

A derisive chuckle resonated from the curly fringe of hair peaking over the armchair. "Yes, by tracking low-level snitches one-by-one, like idiots. I find that if we are seeking vermin, we go to the nest. And somewhere in that nest there is another mule, another victim, a lead—"

"The murderers?" supplied John.

"Yes, those as well, probably. Be presentable by six. We wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

John spent a record thirty minutes in front of his mirror contemplating what outfit would be "presentable" for a gang of drug lords and murderers before deciding to throw his padded black jacket over the first shirt he could grab. After pulling on a worn pair of blue jeans, John exited his bedroom with a sigh. He was still irritated with Sherlock, but he could not very well allow his friend to storm the wolves' den armed only with his charming sense of tact.

He knew that he was doing the charitable thing when he found Sherlock hunched over a spread of crime photographs in the sitting room wearing the same ostentatious black suit with his purple silk shirt. "Honestly, you did not think I would pretend to be a yobbo from the gutter? We need information, not initiation."

Despite himself, John let the image of Sherlock in baggy jeans and a sideways cap float through his mind for the better part of the cab ride to Islington. It was only five minutes from their destination that he noticed Sherlock had been turned to the window during the whole journey. The detective had not once shifted the conversation to his acupuncture-themed murder plot. It unnerved John; he had told Sherlock to stop, but he never listened. John could have sworn that Sherlock was sulking by his moody expression against the window glass.

The cab slowed to a halt, and Sherlock quietly slipped out of the car before he could say a word. John handed the cabbie several notes and hesitantly followed him into the raucous pub. At once the sour air of beer and cigarettes engulfed them. Rough male voices broke against the blaring of Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper _over the sound system. When Sherlock said that the clientele was _unsavoury, _he was uncharacteristically circumspect. There were chavs wrestling each other at the tables, a circle of men lighting up joints in the corner and several acts of social indecency occurring to the chorus of breaking glass.

Sherlock marched through the chaos as if it was no less intimidating than an art museum and seated himself on a barstool at the end of the counter. As John joined him, a pretty, but frazzled redheaded bartender had arrived for their drink orders.

"Two shots of whiskey, please," Sherlock said mechanically.

"Comin' up loves," sighed the long-suffering woman.

John examined him incredulously. "You're drinking? You never drink."

"Why else would two men enter a bar?"

"Yes, because otherwise we would blend in with the furniture perfectly, wouldn't we?"

"Two whiskeys." The redhead pressed the shot glasses against the counter with a _thunk_. "You lads are a bit far from Soho, if you'd ask me."

John launched an _I-told-you-so _look to Sherlock when the word 'Soho' registered with him. "Oh, no. We're not together…like that."

The bartender shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I'll warn you, this is just the warm-up crowd."

"Thank you for the tip," John scrutinised the name badge below the woman's shoulder, "Marilyn."

She looked flabbergasted at the sound of her own name. "Damn, you can actually read! 'Round here it's either _bitch_, _hot tits_, or something worse."

Sherlock watched the exchange while impatiently swirling the alcohol in his glass. "Perhaps then, _Marilyn_, you can tell us whether or not your next wave of customers might include the Rogues?"

She paled. "Oh no, don't tell me you blokes are reporters. Because by the look of this one," she gestured at John, "you're not cops."

John put on a placating smile. "No, no, we aren't the press. I'm John Watson, and this is my friend—just my friend—Sherlock. You could probably just say that we're—"

"Recent acquaintances of Robert Thomas and Joey Smallish," interrupted Sherlock.

She frowned. "But Bobby and Joey are dead."

"Quite." A dark, amused smile flashed over Sherlock's face, and John almost had to rib him.

"Err, Bobby…he wasn't too bad. Would even tip me from time to time. He never really got on with the rest of the gang—I bet he only joined because of that dickhead Joey. There was an arsehole if you ever saw one. Stealing, copping feels, starting brawls. Can't say I miss Joey."

"Yes, but I couldn't care less whether you miss them. Did you notice anything strange between them or amongst the gang in the last three weeks?" insisted Sherlock.

"Sorry, he's like that," John broke in before turning to the detective. "Be nice, Sherlock."

"That would imply that _I am_,"he countered.

"Well, uh, Bobby told me he was going on a trip about two weeks ago. He practically shouted, and Dawson—Mitch Dawson, the leader of the Rogues," she clarified, "got really pissed. He kept on about 'all their necks on the block' or whatnot, and would've beaten poor Bobby to a pulp if Joey wasn't there. To be honest, Dawson's been off for the last month. Makes me afraid to leave the counter."

"'Ey, Bitch! Refill _now_!" slurred an angry voice from the other end of the counter.

The bartender sighed. "There goes the break. Nice talkin' to you lads. Now get out before someone bashes your heads together."

Left alone, John turned to Sherlock, who was sniffing his whiskey in distaste. "So? What are you thinking?"

"Three possibilities, but there is one unavoidable fact. They are afraid."

"They?" parroted John. "You mean the Garrotter Street Rogues?"

Sherlock replied with a slight nod. "They use their own members as drug mules rather than string along a boat of immigrants. They hunt down said members and gut them mercilessly, quickly, as though on a countdown. Their own leader is emotionally compromised."

"But why would they be frightened? They trafficked the drugs. They committed the murders, they—"

"Oh!" Sherlock's eyes shimmered in the dim lighting. "Oh, John, this is good! Brilliant even! It is the drugs, but it isn't the drugs. Just as it is the Rogues but it isn't the Rogues! Misdirection, John!" He waved away John's blank expression. "They are employed by another—someone far more threatening! What if they lost track of something that one of the mules trafficked, something their employer demanded? It explains their desperation!"

"An employer?" Sometimes John was convinced that Sherlock's brain behaved like a toy car making all lefts. Then a horrifying thought sent his pulse racing. "Oh god, Sherlock. _Ireland._ A threatening employer…you don't think it's _him_, do you?"

Sherlock turned to him with an unreadable expression and said nothing. John forced down his whiskey in a single gulp, but it made his throat burn cold. The thought of Moriarty resurfacing so soon made his stomach clench.

"Oi, benders!" growled a loud voice. Sherlock hardly glanced over his shoulder before a smile curved over his lips. John followed the direction of his friend's eyes and stiffened; swaggering toward them was a burly drunk.

_Lovely, just what we need_, John thought.

"What's two poofters doin' at my bar?"

"Are," answered Sherlock.

The man's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

John kicked at Sherlock's leg. "_No_, Sherlock. _Don't._" For the life of him, John could not determine why Sherlock looked so damn pleased to see an angry hooligan harassing them.

Sherlock swivelled one-eighty degrees on his barstool and hazarded a sip from his shot glass. "It's 'what _are_ two poofters doing at my bar' not 'what's two poofters doing at my bar.'"

"Ey! Ya think that's funny, Fag?" The brute struck the glass from Sherlock's hand, and it shattered furiously against the floor. Only then did John see the source of the detective's amusement in the form of a skull and scythe tattoo printed on the man's arm. They had found a member of the gang.

Sherlock did not flinch. "No, not especially. Poor grammar appals me."

The drunk was moments away from driving his knuckles into Sherlock's head when a grizzled voice called over the chaos. "Lee! Haul yer fat-arse back over here! We've got business to discuss!"

"Dawson, we've got a wise-arse o'er here!" shouted the first man.

The owner of the gravelly voice reluctantly stood from a newly acquired table and strode toward the drunk followed by another grinning thug. Dawson took a drag from a lit cigarette and folded his arms. John swallowed hard as he took in the nearly identical tattoos on all of the men.

"Right then, so what did them fags do?" demanded the gang leader.

"Those fags," Sherlock corrected with an exaggerated sigh. "It's 'what did those fags do.'"

"He can't help it!" appealed John as he prayed that the powers above would strike Sherlock with a case of laryngitis. "He doesn't mean it."

"Yes he does," said Sherlock.

The drunken gangster, Lee, pulled Sherlock from his seat by the lapels of his coat. "Don't you never mouth-off to Dawson, ya cocksucking fairy!"

"Double…negative!" choked out Sherlock.

"Hey!" cried out the third member of the Rogues. "I know this one. He's that Asbo Detective! Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock groaned at the word _Asbo_ while John whitened.

"Detective," hissed Dawson. He took another breath from his cigarette and cracked his right knuckle. "That right? The both of ya, then?" For the first terrifying instance, their attention focussed on John. "What do ya think you're detecting?"

John gulped and said nothing. The three men closed in on them. "Two detectives in our bar for a drink. Takes bollocks, don't it Lee? Then again, Frankie here says the skinny one has an Asbo…" Dawson trailed away, and the other two men chuckled derisively. "Whatever for, I wonder?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock managed to disengage himself from the grasp of the thug that had him by the coat. Brushing himself off, he sniffed, and took a step toward the leader of the Rogues. Expletives flew through John's mind with the speed of his sprinting heartbeat.

Sherlock drew himself to his full height and stared Dawson in the eye. "Arson. Although, I suspect after tonight I should expect a second violation…for felony assault." With a quick grin, he plucked the cigarette from the gang leader's lips and took a deep, gratifying drag.

It all unravelled faster than John could register. Sherlock deflected the first punch that had been levelled at his nose and countered with a swift uppercut to Dawson's solar plexus. As he doubled over, the detective caught a fist intended for his ribcage and aimed a kick between the legs of the second thug—the man called Frankie. The gangster fell to the floor, vomiting while the ends of Sherlock's coat still twirled through the air. John found himself gaping like a dimwit; sometimes he forgot how spectacular it was to witness Sherlock move like that.

Out of necessity, he recollected himself when the burly thug Lee took a swipe at the air two centimetres from his face. John ducked under the meaty hook, struck at the man's pressure point below the armpit, and readied himself to slug him in face when he turned around. However, before he could act, John felt a sharp pain against his shoulder that sent him sprawling on the ground.

Disoriented, he searched for his assailant and found that it was none other than Sherlock who had shoved him out of the way. He opened his mouth to yell at him when a silvery glint flashed in Lee's raised hand. _Knife. _The thug had a knife.

"_Sherlock!"_ The gangster turned at an angle, which blocked John's line of sight. Sherlock hunched over, wincing in pain. John hastened to his feet and launched himself over Lee. They went tumbling to the sticky, glass sprinkled floor, and it only took two punches to the head to keep the thug there.

Adrenaline coursed through him like a burst of cold water. "Time to go," he said while fastening a hand around Sherlock's forearm. He focussed on a broken exit sign that only flashed the glowing letters 'IT'. Without a glance behind him, he yanked Sherlock toward the back 'IT'.

A fresh rush of air awakened John to the fact that forehead was damp with sweat. He took in a breath with relief, but that fleeting sense of freedom evaporated when the backdoor swung open after them.

Dawson reeled out of the pub. "You're not getting away that easy, detectives!"

John glanced at Sherlock, who was rolling his wrists. He did likewise, preparing for another unpleasant fight when a sharp crack rang into the alley. Without a shift in his expression, the gang leader fell forward. Behind him stood the redheaded bartender holding a shattered flask of gin.

"Detectives, huh?" she asked with a sideways grin.

"Consulting Detective," Sherlock irritably corrected.

John smirked back at her. "And I'm a doctor, actually."

"Yes, John, and why don't we stand about discussing the state of the economy over the unconscious gangster?"

"He's right. Go on, get outta here! I'll be fine, these bastards won't tell their arses from their elbows when they wake up!" she added after John raised a concerned eyebrow.

"Right…okay." John shifted awkwardly before Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and took off through the alley, forcing him to follow after. It was only several blocks away from melee that John recalled how Sherlock had doubled over in front of the thug who held the knife.

He froze. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock's pale eyes widened as John peeled away his coat to check for stab wounds. "John, what—"

"Where? Where did he stab you, Sherlock?"

"He didn't—"

John summoned what remained of _Captain Watson_ and stared Sherlock down. "Just show me _where_."

Hesitantly, Sherlock gestured at a spot below his ribcage. Neglecting his protests, John untucked the purple shirt from Sherlock's trousers and pushed open the first four buttons. Against his pale skin there was an angry, dark welt but no visible stab wound.

John's shoulders slumped with relief. "Thank god. I thought he stabbed you. Why did you shove me out of the way like that? You could have—"

"Because I saw the knife, and you did not."

"Sherlock, I…" he trailed away when he found himself ensnared in that razor-sharp gaze. John absentmindedly traced the outline of the bruise on Sherlock's skin. It was not that long ago when their places were reversed and Sherlock, shaking with concern, had torn off his jacket by the pool. What had John said that night? _People will talk. _

_Undressing my flatmate in a dark alley: they certainly would have something to say now._ He rested his palm over the bruise, and Sherlock gasped. That spot would be tender for sometime, and John would have to force him to ice the bruise when they returned to the flat.

His thoughts drifted back to their argument that afternoon and Sherlock's sullen behaviour on the cab ride. John could not even remember why he had been irritated with him. "I think you mentioned that, in theory, you wanted to stick me with acupuncture needles?"

Something in Sherlock's expression alighted. "Well, yes, but not immediately. I would like to do so after I've flayed you in a single go with a curved blade to determine whether or not the pressure points are preserved without the flesh." He paused. "In theory."

"Ah…good?" he ventured. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a quick smile.

"Admit it," John began, while gingerly re-buttoning Sherlock's shirt. "The only reason we walked in there and started that mess was because you were desperate for a smoke."

"Not the only reason." Sherlock produced a wallet from his coat pocket. "For the leader of a notorious gang, Mr Dawson ought to notice when he is pickpocketed." He rifled through the contents before pulling out a blank white card with a phone number scrawled on it.

John took the card and frowned. Beneath the phone digits, in a different pen colour, five capital letters were printed:

_**MORAN**_

"Sherlock, what's this?"

Sherlock tossed the wallet over his shoulder. "Something interesting."

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><p><em><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!<strong>_

_**Howlynn: **__LOL, Sherlock+ Morgue= Good times. Hmm…chipper shredder…as always, your ideas intrigue me. Too bad the husband doesn't quite get it, ha! __**ladypredator: **__Ha,hahaha poor Sherlock. No one understands. At least he gets milk. Thanks for reviewing. __**The Random Panda: **__Yay! Thanks for reviewing! It means a lot to hear that it's in-character, it really does! __**meredithriddle: **__That…is a seriously good death. Am I a corrupting influence here (not that I mind)? I can't begin to note the twisted things this story is making me dream. __**Kunoichi Umi: **__Now I want a curly-haired puppy, lolz. I completely agree with you though—screw a date, give me the cheekbones or give me a creepy horrible death! __**CowMow: **__I wholeheartedly endorse fanfiction as a means to avoid studying for an exam. And yes, you can lock the doors, and Sherlock will show up with a chainsaw. __**CharmingKarma: **__Oh god, that review got me! Thank you so freaking much for that, it seriously made my day. Seriously, laugh all you need to, that's the fun with dark humour. __**dcfg21: **__Yes, the murder-snake what murders. Bless you for reviewing- it made me laugh at my silliness. __**ViciousHerring: **__I'm completely for frightening housemates. And I really enjoyed your comment about the "I would like…", you totally got it! __**LunarLacrimosa: **__Thank you thank you thank you! Your comment meant so much to me, it gave me the fuzzies! __**Skyuni123: **__I shall update as quickly as the powers that be allow me to! One thing I can promise is that it won't go unfinished. I'm just so glad it's loved. __**herRhi-chan: **__Thanks for the review! I wanted to make this as in-character as possible, while making it a fun Johnlock story! I'm happy you approve! __**sycamoretree: **__Hilarious, I could perfectly imagine John walking in on that. Thanks for reviewing and complimenting my twisted plot! __**laceypinkdream: **__Cute, huh? ^^ Hee, I'll take it :)_


	5. Anthropophagy

**Aah! Sorry for the late update. Science got in the way. No, really, it did.**

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Warnings: Organs, health code violations, blackmail and stuttering!**

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><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Five: Anthropophagy**

"John, text Lestrade and tell him to reference the last name _Moran_ with Interpol's records, particularly those pertaining to Ireland."

John frowned at the haughty command as he finished pressing a pushpin that secured a red strand of yarn into the corkboard. He did not imagine his first waking hour would be spent connecting photographs of cadavers and crime scenes into a web of crimson string. Of course Sherlock could not be bothered to help; the detective instead elected to remain lazily spread over the sofa tutting whenever John had placed a scrap of paper in a dubious place on the web.

"Why can't you do it yourself?" grumbled John, while placing the business card with the word _MORAN_ at the top of the web.

Sherlock responded with a silence that John interpreted as, _Why can't you stop being an idiot and do as I say?_

John sighed, turned and found himself momentarily perplexed as he looked upon the sofa and found Sherlock resting against it upside-down. His long legs were crossed over the yellow, spray-painted smiley face and his head hung off the edge of the cushions, his black curls dangling toward the hard floor.

Sherlock's pale green eyes regarded him impatiently. "John. The phone. Text Lestrade."

"Uh, right." Not taking his eyes off Sherlock, he picked up his own mobile from the coffee table and began punching at the keys. For good measure, he was going to threaten the Detective Inspector to take Sherlock's name off the Asbo list. The last thing they needed was another thug recognising them the next time they went to a pub for information. "So this Moran person…you have no idea who this is?"

Sherlock's upside-down lips twitched into a smile. "The number on the card is local, written, and not typed. It would indicate that this isn't the individual's permanent number, nor do they wish to be attached to any mode of contact. No doubt you've noticed that the name _Moran_ is written in red ink rather than the blue colour of the phone digits, unless you are colour-blind, which is a working theory of mine whenever you wear that hideous plaid jumper. The handwriting differs from that of the phone number—so it was the gang leader who wrote his name under the number to remember the contact. Not the brightest bunch under his employ."

John glanced at the white business card that he had just pinned to the corkboard. "Moran employed the Rogues to smuggle heroin from Ireland to London." Sherlock arched an eyebrow, and he quickly added, "But…it wasn't just the heroin, because three of the members wouldn't be dead now. They swallowed something along with the heroin that was equally if not more illegal."

"Which means?" prompted Sherlock.

John puffed out his cheeks at the corkboard and turned back to the upside-down detective. "Which means that this is something bigger than an operation involving hundreds of thousands of quid in smuggled heroin, if it was just a red herring as you've suggested."

"Careful," said Sherlock. "You're beginning to think."

John shrugged away the quip, and he rotated the corkboard on its head so that Sherlock could better view the web from his current position. "One thing, though. I still have this feeling that _he's_ involved somehow. Moriarty."

"Oh?"

John gestured at the corkboard. "Ireland, large sums of money, a minor London gang branching out. Tell me that this doesn't say _consulting criminal_!"

Sherlock frowned at the web. "Why have you turned it upside-down?"

"What? Because you're hanging—never mind, forget it." John righted the corkboard to its original position and noticed how a flush of pink was pooling against Sherlock's face. "Just how long have you been sitting like that?"

"The increased blood improves my concentration, and it allows me to think clearly."

"So does sleeping," John remarked warily, noting that it was not a good sign that Sherlock had avoided his initial question. Even as the blood coloured his face, Sherlock appeared completely exhausted.

"Dull. Sleep is overrated, besides, I'm—"

"On a case, yes. But Sherlock, you're ready to drop," he scolded. "Have you even eaten?"

"Of course. There was the apple you tossed at my head when we returned to the flat last night." He paused thoughtfully. "There's been a pattern of people throwing bits of food at me this week. I find it disturbing."

"A real meal, Sherlock."

"The Indian take-away. Wednesday, I think."

"That was four days ago. I could feel your ribs last night when I examined you."

"Then you know that they are all present and accounted for."

John wiped off the smirk from Sherlock's face the best way he knew. He snatched the detective's bare ankle and pulled down. With a yelp, Sherlock tumbled forward from the sofa and plummeted all of thirty centimetres to the floor. Disoriented, Sherlock attempted to reclaim an air of dignity about him by straightening his red dressing gown over his ruffled button-up shirt.

John allowed himself a small chuckle at the withering look his flatmate shot him from his place on the floor. "I'm going to fix a breakfast, and you _will_ eat it, Sherlock."

Sherlock childishly huffed and threw himself back onto the sofa, which was enough of an indication to John that he had won the argument. His glow of victory was short-lived when he walked into their kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door.

"_Sherlock!_ What _the hell_ is this!"

"You are right to suggest that there is something more to this case than would meet the eye," remarked Sherlock, while playing with a strip of peeling wallpaper. "Even if your eye is exceptionally blind to the obvious."

John remained aghast at the sight occupying their refrigerator. A long bundle of pinkish brown tissue dangled from the top rack, just below the milk by a sharp metal hook. At the foot of the bundle a shrunken, discoloured sac was suspended in the frigid air. Both were clumsily stitched together with thick, black thread, but that did not contain the stale scent of formaldehyde from wafting past the threshold of the refrigerator. John wrinkled his nose in disgust as words percolated from his astonished throat. "Th-They're _ORGANS, Sherlock! _This is a stomach and oesophagus! You have them _hanging_ in our refrigerator!"

Sherlock rolled off the sofa. "Good, yes, the organs. You're beginning to understand. The last two victims were cut open for the contents thought present in their digestive organs. But the first victim's demise was premeditated by piercing the rolls of heroin held in his stomach. Who do you suppose did that John? It wasn't his fellow gangsters; their haphazard method of body disposal on the ferry makes that quite obvious. So it was the employer then, this Moran. Why do you think he murdered one of his own mules?"

John hesitantly shifted the contents of the refrigerator around the human tissues, while he searched for anything he would classify as 'still-edible'. It did not aid matters that the stomach was swinging nearly three centimetres away from his jam. "I don't know. Perhaps a message to the others? Perhaps Smallish did something he didn't like, you know, like fill his refrigerator with decomposing organs!" He accidentally brushed the oesophagus while pulling the out the milk and cringed. "Oh god, they're _dripping_."

"A message, yes. Perhaps it was even to intimidate the gang, if you'd like to believe it's so simple." Sherlock paced by the window. "But Joey Smallish. That was the victim's name on the passport. Rather informal: why not _Joseph_, or _Joe_? It says _Joey Smallish_."

John turned on the electric kettle, while bracing himself for any other nasty surprises as he searched the pantries for two clean teacups. "I don't know where you're going with this. My passport says _John_. And please tell me that the stomach in our refrigerator didn't come from one of the victims at the morgue, Sherlock. I'd like to go this month without having our door busted in by the Yard for evidence tampering."

"It's hardly tampering when those idiots don't know what to do with it," Sherlock snapped. "How are we supposed to know why they are disembowelling their victims without testing what kind of object becomes entrenched in the digestive organs?"

John blanched. "Oh no, you _did_, didn't you? You snuck into the morgue and body-snatched! When did you have the time? This wasn't here last night!"

"I _harvested organs_, John. To _body-snatch_, I would have required your assistance at Barts, and you have made it abundantly clear that you prefer to waste away the hours between twelve and seven in the morning sleeping instead of more important things," sniffed Sherlock. "So far I have narrowed down the object in question to be larger than a USB drive but slighter in width than a mobile."

John had stilled all his activity in the kitchen and held back a lurch in his stomach. "That's…ghoulish, Sherlock."

"Thank you. Science usually is. But we're digressing from the circumstances of the first murder." He paused in front of the window. "_Joey Smallish_. Think John_, think. _Why was this man of all the mules murdered? He was selected to die for a reason!"

The white noise of water boiling against the walls of the electric kettle drowned out the last few words that Sherlock spoke. John turned to switch it off, glad for a distraction from what was becoming a taxing and bizarre conversation for a Sunday morning.

Just as the rush of the boiling water died away, the pitch of shattering glass demolished the silence in their flat. John's eyes darted toward the sound, and he dropped the kettle when he spotted Sherlock lying on the floor beneath the broken window. A red brick with a white sheet of paper roped around it rested a meter from his prone body.

"_Sherlock!_" He rushed over to his friend, nearly tripping over the brick in the process. "Sherlock, are you hurt?"

"Ungh…John, the note…what does the note say?" groaned Sherlock while feebly raising a hand from the floor.

John descended upon the paper that was attached to the brick. The handwriting was barely legible as he read aloud:

_Mister Holmes:_

_Seeing as you've involved yourself in our bussiness, we'll give you 24 hours to locate and deliver the trigger on our behalf. Or else we gut you and your friend for practise._

_The GSRs_

John hurried to the broken window, but it was apparent the moment he looked down at the street that whoever had thrown the brick was far away.

Sherlock tilted his head up from the floor. "I bet…they misspelled _business_…didn't they?"

"Yeah, they did. How did you guess—" A thud interrupted him, and John felt his arteries go cold as he saw Sherlock collapse back onto the floor with a trail of blood seeping from the back of his curls. "_Sherl!_ Sherlock! Open your eyes! Stay with me!"

Sherlock hazily obliged, and his eyelashes fluttered open revealing two slivers of unfocussed green. He winced as John touched the gash on his head. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sherlock blinked. "Severed…or un-severed?"

John tried again. "What day is today?"

"Two."

The third try was the charm. "Who's the prime minister?"

"David Cameron."

John faltered. "Dear god."

"Is everything alright, dear?" Mrs Hudson called from the doorway. "I heard a crash upstairs and—"

"Mrs Hudson, please fetch me my medical kit from the washroom sink! Sherlock's suffering head trauma!"

Their landlady gasped at the sight of Sherlock bleeding on the floor and scurried to the bathroom without another word. He glanced at Sherlock and was puzzled to find the detective smirking.

"Uh, Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Me? John, this is amazing! I can…I can barely think a co-co-coherent thought. Is this what you ordinary p-people think all the t-time? You a-and Le-Lestrade?"

John reminded himself that it was poor bedside manner to smack a patient suffering from a concussion. "You're stuttering, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "N-not g-g-good?"

John smiled and took him by his shoulders. "Come on, let's get you to the sofa so I can bandage your head."

Sherlock compliantly followed, although his movements were stiff and unsure under John's guidance. The moment he settled, Mrs Hudson re-emerged into the sitting room carrying a large black case.

"Here it is. I would have been along sooner, but there was a jar of beetles on top of it. Can you imagine, _beetles _kept in a jar beneath the sink!"

An innocuous smile flickered across Sherlock's face. "Sc-Sc-Scarab b-beetles, Ma-Ma-Mrs Hudson."

At seeing Sherlock's earnest, somewhat confused expression, her outrage dimmed, and she patted his hand. "Yes, dear. Scarab beetles." She turned to John, who was pulling rolls of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic from his kit. "You mentioned head trauma?"

John nodded solemnly. "It's just a concussion, it ought to sort itself out in a matter of hours. I'll text Lestrade—the DI—about the brick. There's no need to worry."

Mrs Hudson moved toward the kitchen. "Then perhaps I can fix you boys breakfast, under the circumstances, mind you." She reached for the refrigerator door. "But remember, I'm not your—"

"NO!" cried John, while Sherlock grinned stupidly. The landlady took her hand off the refrigerator door and waited for an explanation. "Please, Mrs Hudson, breakfast would be lovely—he hasn't eaten for days—but for your sanity and in the name of several health codes, _do not_ open that refrigerator!"

"It's not sanitary, thumbs, feet, heads…" murmured Mrs Hudson as she ambled out of the kitchen and down the stairs to her own flat.

**Sent 10:33 AM**

_**Greg**_**, **_**please come to 221B, ASAP. One of the Rogues tossed a brick through our window and it hit Sherlock. –JW**_

"D-don't wa-want breakfast," stammered Sherlock as John put aside the mobile and turned to him with the roll of gauze.

"Oh, you're eating whether you like it or not. You're even sleeping once I've determined you're in the clear from anything more serious." John dutifully pressed a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic to the gash hidden in Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock hissed and aimed a full-lipped pout at his doctor. "_J-J-John,_" he whinged.

John fought down a smile with every iota of professionalism that he had been taught in medical school. Without his usual eloquence, Sherlock reminded him of a toddler refusing to eat his vegetables. He mused whether Sherlock had stuttered as a child and if the vicious blow to his head had disabled whatever mental block he had in place. John made a note to himself to ask Mycroft the next time he was being particularly insufferable. In the meantime, it was not useful to think only of how endearing the stutter sounded on Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock, at least have two pieces of toast when Mrs Hudson comes back up with breakfast. I'll even spread jam on them and cut the bread into eighths the way you like. Sherlock, stop that!" John snatched Sherlock's hand, which had been slapping at his progress with the bandage. Sherlock huffed and looked away as John finished wrapping the bandage. "There you go. Now try to lie back and enjoy barely thinking."

Sherlock's unfocussed jade eyes honed on him so that John was certain that even in his wounded state, the detective was attempting to devour him alive with a simple gaze. It was unnerving, particularly because of the ridiculous smirk that was fixed over his face.

When his mobile vibrated, John jumped off the floor.

**Sent 10:41 AM**

_**Sunday morning and I'm already swamped. Glad to hear that I'm not alone, but I can't make it out to you lads for another hour. -GL**_

"J-John!" A shaky baritone voice forced him to divert his attention from the mobile. Sherlock leaned askew on the sofa, and he was in grave danger of falling off the edge as his stare drilled into John. "I-I'd l-like to c-c-cut you into ei-eighths and eat y-you."

John really could not hold it back then, bedside manner be damned—how could he when Sherlock spoke those words with that adorable stutter? The laughter came tumbling out of his mouth before he could raise a hand to stifle it.

A sharp scowl creased over Sherlock's lips and he seized John's arm below the elbow with a crushing grip. "I w-want to eat you J-John." His eyebrows screwed together as he was clearly frustrated with his own voice, but a glint flashed behind his narrowed eyes. "I c-can smell y-your skin. Ma-mango and p-pineapple jam…y-you'd taste delicious."

John's grin plummeted from his face. He did his best to banish the image of the organs currently stored between the milk and jam in their refrigerator from the fore of his mind to no avail. It was not a far stretch of the imagination that they could be sharing space with some cold cuts of John Watson, and with Sherlock treading the deep end of temporary insanity with his concussion, he was not going to take any risks antagonising him. John wordlessly removed his arm from Sherlock's grasp, and lifted his mobile from the floor.

**Sent 10:45 AM**

_**Maybe you ought to wait 'till tomorrow to come by, Greg. Sherlock has a concussion and isn't quite right…more than usual. -JW**_

**Sent 10:45 AM**

_**I'll be over in ten. -GL**_

John sighed at the mobile, but before he could formulate a response, Sherlock impatiently confiscated the phone and tossed it across the sitting room. "_Sherlock!"_ John clapped his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and carefully laid him out on the sofa. "Just lie down, will you?"

Sherlock chuckled and entrenched his long fingers in the collar of John's jumper "I-I'll b-begin b-by eating a d-deltoid. Then wr-wrap the r-rest for l-later in f-foil to s-store in the r-refrigerator."

"Yes, I'm sure you will." He moved to untangle himself from his flatmate, but Sherlock displayed no sign of loosening his grip. He was about to admonish him once more when he felt a slender leg hook around his hips. He looked into Sherlock's amused expression helplessly as his centre of gravity went twisting beneath him. One moment he was standing over his patient; the next he had crashed against him on the sofa.

"Sherlock, let go of me. Let go of me _now!_" he growled at the giggling madman. "Your head's injured—you're only going to make it worse by—_OUCH!_" A sharp, wet pain stabbed through his right shoulder.

The bastard actually _bit _him.

"Mm, J-John…" Another bite. "Y-You taste w-wonderful."

John attempted to squirm out of Sherlock's arms before remembering his concussion, and he begrudgingly halted his efforts. To his relief, Sherlock was not much of a cannibal. While the bites were sure to leave bruises on his formerly unwounded shoulder, it almost tickled to have Sherlock nibbling on him. John groaned to himself and deflected his attention toward the two fresh nicotine patches planted on the detective's forearm, the elevated heartbeat he could feel thrumming against his spine, the small noises of contentment that Sherlock made as his warm mouth closed over his shoulder and—

"This is just wrong!" John moaned.

Inspector Lestrade did not need that reassurance when he appeared through the doorway and found John spooned against Sherlock, who was nipping at his neck like an enthusiastic puppy. He gaped at the two men entangled on the sofa. "I've missed something again, haven't I?"

John felt blood rushing into his face and over his ears. "This _isn't _what it looks like! He's—it's just—get him off me, will you? Ow, _Sherlock!_"

"He's m-mine!" Sherlock growled at the intruder in their flat. "J-John, I'm g-going to ch-chew holes in y-your bones and d-drink y-your ma-marrow."

Lestrade nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another, while glancing at the maniacal consulting detective, then meeting the wide, pleading blue eyes of one John Watson. After threading a hand through his silver hair, he sighed, and committed to a plan of action that only a true friend would do. He pulled out his camera phone.

John made a sour face. "Greg, if you turn on that camera, I will email my video of you performing karaoke at that pub last month to the Met."

Lestrade considered this before aiming his mobile in their direction. "It's worth it. I need to get this."

John raised an eyebrow. "You were too drunk to remember that the song was _Barbie Girl_. You danced a little."

Lestrade unenthusiastically lowered his phone. "You would debase yourself to blackmail, Doctor?"

John winced when Sherlock took another excited nibble from his shoulder. "Yes, I'm capable of quite a lot, actually." _And apparently that includes becoming breakfast for the world's only consulting detective_, he thought with a bit of self-depreciation.

Greg pocketed his mobile with a frown. "Okay, well, you said he had a concussion, which is why I guess you haven't decked the tosser. Um, let's try this." He bent down and picked up the scarlet ball of yarn that John had left unused after completing his web.

John blanked. "Greg that's string. _Sherlock! I mean it, one more bite and—"_

"No, trust me on this. I've had two nieces go through teething phases. This gets 'em every time," Lestrade reassured him. He unrolled a fifth of the yarn ball and dangled the end of the string before Sherlock's eyes.

The detective did not look very impressed. "Y-You're a-an idiot, L-Lestrade."

Lestrade's shoulders slumped and he let the string droop to the floor. "Why is he stuttering?"

John, trapped as he was, managed a half-shrug and opened his mouth to ask the Met's finest if he had any more brilliant ideas when he felt Sherlock's mouth vacate his shoulder.

"Just a mo-moment!" Sherlock exclaimed while pushing John off his chest. He pointed an accusing finger at Lestrade. "Y-You w-would have m-me think th-that's only string w-wouldn't y-you, w-when in fact th-that's the p-perfect size for a y-yarn ball to h-hide a p-pack of cigarettes!"

Lestrade paled several shades and dropped the yarn to the floor seconds before Sherlock leapt from the sofa and pounced on top of it. John rubbed his well-bitten shoulder and observed Sherlock pulling fistfuls of red string from the ball. "You mad, concussed idiot," he muttered under his breath. He had not the heart to tell Sherlock that he flushed his cigarettes weeks ago.

While remaining wary that Sherlock might still cause himself further injury, John risked shifting his watchful eyes toward Lestrade, who was becoming increasingly less amused at watching Sherlock roll on the floor. "There was a message attached to the brick that struck him. I can't say I understand it all, except for the obvious when someone throws a brick through your window."

Lestrade cursed under his breath. "We were half a day from rounding up most of that gang. None of this would have happened if he had gone off and—"

"Acted like he always does on a case?" John sighed at the man who was becoming progressively more tangled in red yarn on the floor. "Too late to wish it was any different."

Lestrade answered with his own unconvinced sigh, and he fixed his eyes on the blank white calling card pinned at the top of John's web. "So this is the piece of evidence Sherlock pinched from the gang leader last night? The one you texted me about—this _Moran_?"

"That's right. I know it's vague but anything you might find about someone named Moran…"

"Already found everything there is—well, everything about the Morans with criminal records. The only one who currently isn't put away made Interpol's wanted list."

John stood from the sofa. "What did you find? Who is he?"

Lestrade held up his mobile, which displayed the picture of a young soldier. The photo must have been taken at least fifteen years ago by the harsh contrast of playing against the man's pale skin. His hair was dark blonde, swept over a smooth forehead that sloped into a narrow nose. He stared, unsmiling, straight past the lens with piercing azure eyes that were haunting a place far away from camera.

"Sebastian Moran. At a time, he was a sniper for SAS, first deployed in Iraq during the Gulf War. He was promoted to Captain for exceptional service following the tour. In '97 he was sent to Northern Ireland in counter-sniper operation where he was subsequently court-martialled for his refusal to obey orders. He disappeared shortly after the trial, and resurfaced now and then for illegal arms charges associated with the IRA. It all makes for an interesting read. You think he could be orchestrating this?"

"Sebastian Moran." John whispered at the austere portrait of the young sniper. It had been less than a year since he had been discharged from the army, and although it had not been under the best circumstances, it disconcerted him that another soldier was behind such a grisly conspiracy of violence. "It's more than possible this is the guy. We'll need to see what Sherlock thinks."

He gestured at the wriggling form of Sherlock Holmes on the floor. He had somehow twisted himself in the yarn so that his arms were restrained at his sides. "Wh-Why did Jo-Joey Smallish have to d-die?" he stammered with a gasp against the floorboards.

John shook his head at his confused, and now ensnared, flatmate. "He was going on about Moran having the first victim murdered before the brick flew through the window, and, you know," he explained.

"Whoo-hoo." chimed in Mrs Hudson as she cleared the doorway carrying a tray. "I've brought us all a nice fry-up, something for the nice Inspector, as well." She scowled at the floor, where Sherlock was tied in red yarn from head to toe. "What the bloody hell is this? Is this how they teach you to treat your patients nowadays! You tie them up?"

"Mrs Hudson, it's not what—he was biting and—" John was effectively silenced as Mrs Hudson thrust the breakfast tray into his arms and hovered over the detective.

Sherlock flopped against his bindings. "Wa-Was l-looking for cigarettes Ma-Mrs Hudson."

She gave him an indulgent smile. "Yes, of course you were. Poor dear, let's get you off the floor and give you something to eat."

As Mrs Hudson busied herself with mothering Sherlock, John caught Lestrade gawping at the three of them with a look of bewilderment that was begging the question, _Is this a typical morning for you people?_

John found it somewhat depressing that these days the answer was an unfortunate _yes_.

Sherlock peaked over Mrs Hudson's shoulder while she guided him back to the sofa. His eyebrows furrowed, and he insistently peered at John. "Wh-Why did Jo-Joey Smallish have to die?" He repeated.

Mrs Hudson gave both John and Lestrade an uneasy frown. "Just ignore him, Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock pouted as he was pushed down on the sofa cushions. "Jim s-says hi."

John froze. "Sherlock, what did you say?"

Sherlock leaned forward with a pensive expression. "Jim says hi. Wh-Why did Joey Sm-Smallish have to d-die?"

Lestrade folded his hands atop his head in exasperation. Sherlock was difficult enough to understand when he was not concussed. "What is he talking about? Is it some kind of rhyme or riddle?"

John set down the breakfast tray. "Moriarty. Moriarty is involved, isn't he, Sherlock? That's what you've been trying to say?" The detective looked up at him with the beginnings of a smile fidgeting on his lips. He turned to the web and scrutinised the crime photo of Joey Smallish's bloated corpse. At the top of the photograph he had printed the man's name in large capital letters: JOEY SMALLISH.

A flash went off inside John Watson's head, and as his thoughts raced, he briefly wondered if this was how Sherlock often felt when he was on the precipice of a discovery. He closed in on Lestrade. "Sherlock's been occupied with the victim's first name! _Joey Smallish_. I should have seen it sooner!"

John snatched his pen off the coffee table. He noted that Sherlock was now beaming at him with encouragement, his unfocused pupils holding steady over his next movement. He flashed him an appreciative smile back. Even when his thoughts were severely muddled with a concussion Sherlock was maddeningly brilliant.

He pressed the tip of his pen below the victim's name. "Why did Joey Smallish have to die? It _was_ a message. An anagram" He capped his pen and stood aside for his now-captive audience to observe his handiwork.

JOEY SMALLISH

JIM SAYS HELLO

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><p><em><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!<strong>_

_**Corey 5268:**You! Wonderful you! Thank you for taking the time to review all my chapters and fill me with the joy of joyfulness! So happy you like my/Sherlock's murder schemes! Seriously, I appreciate you taking the time to review all of the chapters so f-ing much! **TSylvestrisA:** I love your description so much of Sherlock as a cat (mine brings me dead things) that it makes me laugh every time I read it. I heart you for that. **Kunoichi Umi: **I'm going to confess. The line about the puppy in this chapter was pretty much inspired by you, LOL. I think you're influencing me with images of Sherl-puppy just as much…and give him treats when he gives me dead birds as presents. Yes. **TheDoctorSherlock: **Thanks for the review! I'm happy to hear my insanity is contributing to oxygen deprivation. More Johnlock, yeah? Well this chapter is a step toward that, but that could be a challenge (one I shall accept!) since this is pre-slash. **It's-Teatime-Somewhere:** Hi brilliant reviewer! Thank you SO much for such a well-thought out review, it really made my day! And no, no, no BDSM sexy times for this particular story, LOL. Your review gave me a lot to think about, and I hope I deliver, but I'm so happy that you seem to enjoy what I've done with the characters/case thus far! Thanks! **CharmingKarma:** Part of me agrees with you about the nicotine. It really does. I honestly have no idea about the pressure points without the skin—I'm afraid I'm as curious as Sherlock about that one (looks around for flatmate). Thank you always for reviewing, it encourages me to get off my lazy arse and write! **Kasia-chan: **Thank you, thank you for your kind review! I will certainly update as frequently as I can write new chapters! **RedBrickandIvy: **Not much Moran in this chapter, but I hope you liked! Thanks for reviewing this again! **Chip D: **Ah, you like my warnings! Thank you! Glad you find my bizarre humour entertaining, I really am. I shall update as often as long as the fates allow me! **meredithriddle:** Ah, phosphorus. Now that's an interesting one. I'll have to look that up *for an experiment* Thank you for another wonderful and thoughtful review! **laceypinkdream: **hahaha so glad you like! Thanks for your review =)_


	6. Criminal Insanity

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Warnings: PTSD, naughty shenanigans and crazy.**

**The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated and your assassination attempts require much refinement. -MS SH**

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><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Six: Criminal Insanity**

Gunshots peppered into the cloudless sky as smoke coiled above the toppled Land Rover. They were only five men: two lieutenants, one dead colonel, a sergeant in a bad way, and a very pale captain who had to literally somehow stitch this mess back together. The army doctor fought down his sprinting pulse while another round of gunfire crackled into the desert. He had already lost the colonel; a sniper planted a round in his head and god dammit, there was nothing, _fucking nothing,_ he could do but watch that man smile as he bled into the sand.

Now John was kneeling over the sergeant—Sergeant Oliver—with two fingers clamped over his femoral artery in a pitiful attempt to staunch the bleeding. He did not even like Oliver; the man was an insufferable shit who just the other morning threw everyone's shorts into the stalls for a laugh. Now that irritating bastard was staring up at him with uncurbed terror, but with the snipers raining bullets over their heads and his medical kit beneath the Land Rover carnage, there was little he could do but keep pressing his fingers against the sergeant's nicked artery.

"_You bastard! Fucking do something! It's my leg, don't let me lose my leg, Captain!"_

He wanted to say something to calm the poor arsehole under his care, but his throat was dry. His fingers were shaking. He knew he couldn't hold on much longer—not as long as it would take to keep this man alive. Before he had to make an inevitable and impossible decision, John felt something hot and solid push through his left shoulder. He went blind with agony, and his head turned somersaults until he felt the rough kiss of sand against his face. His arm outstretched to the fading sergeant. The other man's blood spurted out in crimson ribbons. Under the lullaby of streaming bullets and a cursing dead man, he allowed the blackness to overtake him.

The hot air went blissfully mute, and as John nearly gave into his cold finality, he felt something wet and cool slide past his forehead. His vision blurred over the simpering, decomposed face of Joey Smallish, which now stared at him in the place of Sergeant Oliver in a puddle of murky water. The ocean-saturated corpse of the gangster lurched towards him with a squelch. The two lieutenants who were once returning gunfire with vigour about-faced. They were no longer his mates that only minutes before were laughing at a letter Three-Continents Watson had received from his sister. They were not even human. Robert Thomas shuffled alongside Parker Blake, whose intestines were swinging out of his chest cavity.

The three dead men descended over him. Their moist, peeling hands closed over his arms and dragged him in the sand. Metres away John could see a scuffed metal door. Was there always a door in this place, in the middle of the desert? At the side of the closed doorway a figure materialised shouldering an HK417 rifle. Sebastian Moran, as though he had stepped out of his sombre military portrait, winked at him with his distant blue eyes. John followed those piercing eyes to the letters engraved on the doorway:

_**AUTOPSY**_.

_No, dear god, no! Please let me be alive!_ John thought with every fibre holding his brain together, and he would have shrieked it into the hills if it gave him any strength to escape his undead captors. If he had screamed, however, it was likely that his tormented voice would have been cut down by a drifting noise. The melody weaved in and out of the blistering air, but its tenor was deep and steady. The breeze entrained speckles of sand with the crescendo of the tune, and as it scraped over John, he felt the unforgiving hold of the rotting hands dissolve. The three dead men had been swept away into piles of dust by the rippling music.

_John_, hissed a low voice. The undulating melody summoned a burst of air. He hazarded a glance to the stark metal door that loomed over him. Moran stood frozen beside it, smirking, even as the flesh of his hands and face caked over with sand.

_John, wake up! _Urged the voice in the wind. Moran swivelled his head in his direction and unfurled his grin. The grains of sand now composing his face blew away in clumps, and John witnessed Moran's head crumble away into dust.

_Wake up John!_

John launched himself free of his sweat-drenched duvet, and he opened his eyes to the soothing dark of his bedroom. He covered his eyes with a broken moan and bent himself into a foetal position. Only then did he hear it: the gentle waxing and waning of music resonating into his room. Violin music.

The song curled over him, spreading calm over his panicked mind. He turned his head towards the glow of copper light beneath his bedroom door and the shadow that eclipsed it. Sherlock must have heard him groaning in his sleep. The clock on the nightstand read _3:33 AM. _He looked up at the grey ceiling with a wry smile; of course Sherlock refrained from a full night's sleep. John found it ironic that after a concussion and days without rest that Sherlock would be assuaging _his_ sleep troubles.

"John." The violin came to an abrupt rest, and Sherlock's whisper permeated the room with such clarity that John was certain he was on the other side of the door. "John, I wish that I could crack open a fragment of your skull and pick out the pieces of your brain one by one. I would pull out your amygdalae, the seat of your irrational memories, and unravel it into individual fibres."

John forgot to breathe as he wound the duvet back over his vulnerable person and fought down a shiver at the image those words cast into his overactive mind. The shadow beneath his door shifted. "Sleep well, John," Sherlock whispered.

The violin resumed its serenade with decreasing volume as the shadow beneath his door receded. The song persisted for sometime, although John could not have been asked for how long. He let the wooden notes carry him back into a fitful, but nightmare-vacant slumber.

Four hours later, the persistent electronic chime of his alarm sent him trudging downstairs to the washroom. He hardly regarded his haggard expression in the mirror, but when he yanked off his cotton tee, John grimaced at the purple, crescent-shaped marks over his right shoulder. The ponce had given him love bites!

As he tore his gaze away from his mussed reflection, he noticed an unopened jar of Tiger Balm sitting on the counter. It was the closest thing to an apology he was likely to receive from Sherlock. While he twirled the small jar between his fingers, he reminded himself that months ago, his flatmate would probably have disregarded such a gesture entirely.

John raised his left elbow, and confirmed that the range of his injured shoulder was too limited to apply the balm to his bruises. In defeat, he turned to the darkened corridor and sighed, "Do you mind?"

He was not surprised when a second later, Sherlock poked his head into the washroom. John gave him a disapproving shake of his head, more irate at the fact that he had removed the bandage on his head at some point last night than anything (John had grudgingly come to accept Sherlock's voyeuristic tendencies within the first month of their cohabitation).

Sherlock wore an unintelligible expression that drifted to his speculative green eyes as he entered the bathroom behind John and took the jar. John caught him resting his eyes briefly on his scar and he tensed, but Sherlock did not even raise an eyebrow. A smile escaped him at that—friends, doctors, lovers—their expressions had all reflected a silent horror or pity at his gunshot wound, even when they did him the courtesy of saying nothing. There was no greater comfort than seeing his best friend observe it with absolutely no reaction.

An icy burn at his right shoulder blade dragged him from his thoughts. In the mirror he noticed Sherlock gingerly dabbing the salve on the bite marks. He forced an awkward laugh. "I suppose I'm in luck that you're such a bloody awful cannibal, or else we might need more than this jar."

Sherlock glanced up from his shoulder with an indignant frown. "I was not an awful cannibal. You were impatient."

John glared at Sherlock's reflection. "You haven't been stammering all morning. That's a good improvement. Rather strange, though, I've read that it's common for those suffering head trauma to revert to childhood speech impediments. Were you a stutterer, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's haughty expression plummeted from his face. "No," he replied a little too quickly to avert John's suspicion. His smile widened. He absolutely had to interrogate Mycroft about this when he had the opportunity.

It was so rare that he had the drop on Sherlock that John was tempted to tease him further; however, he found himself strangely content to let the other man trace geometric shapes over his shoulder with a fresh dollop of balm. It only took a minute of Sherlock's frustrated silence for John to soften his expression. "Last night…it was about to become a lot worse before you…just. Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock traced a neat spiral pattern over his shoulder. "This was the fifth night terror you've experienced in the last two months. Before the business at the pool, you had them less frequently."

He sighed. "Which is why I have an appointment with Ella today rather than a shift at the clinic."

"I'll come with you." After observing what must have been a bewildered expression, he added, "We cannot waste any more time dithering while this case grows cold—"

"Dithering? Sherlock, you had a concussion. You hadn't eaten or slept properly for days!"

"And we are under threat to find which one of the Rogues harbours the trigger. Although I would hardly consider the threat from those imbeciles terrifying, John, I would prefer to understand what is worth the stomachs of three men, before the murderers come calling, not to exclude one Sebastian Moran. Every moment is vital."

John suppressed the image of the three dead Garrotter Street Rogues lurching towards him in his nightmare. He shuddered while Sherlock traced Roman numerals against his shoulder blade. "Look, you can follow me to the appointment if you must. And mate, I think the shoulder has nearly all the jar on it by now."

"Hm? Oh, yes." Sherlock abruptly parted his fingers from John's shoulder, and turned his face away from the mirror.

"While I find your concern for my welfare touching, Sherlock, just promise me that you won't actually follow me into Ella's office. I don't want a repeat of my dental exam."

Sherlock folded his arms. "Why would you still be upset about that? Your doctor did not even file charges."

"You released a tank of nitrous oxide into the air vent because you were bored in the waiting room."

A lopsided smirk alighted his face at the memory. "Which is why I suspect he did not call the authorities. That was a proper hallucinogenic—even I found its effects rather pleasant."

John had not even washed his face, and he was already regretting his decision.

* * *

><p><strong>Sent 9:50 AM<strong>

_**It was not my fault.**_

**Sent 9:52 AM**

_**I am not apologising.**_

**Sent 9:56 AM**

_**John?**_

John ignored the whirring of his mobile from his trousers pocket while he fended away the seething glares of the waiting room staff. He squirmed in his thinly cushioned seat and failed to keep his attention on the pile of month-old periodicals that were arranged on a coffee table when the mobile buzzed once more.

**Sent 9:57 AM**

_**It was just as much your responsibility.**_

John's resolve melted away. He set his jaw short of grinding his molars and punched at the keys on his phone.

**Sent 9:58 AM**

_**My fault? How the hell can you even remotely blame any of what happened on me? -J**_

**Sent 9:59 AM**

_**Aren't you always insisting that I attempt 'small talk' with individuals as one of those social things? -S**_

**Sent 10:00 AM**

_**Sherlock, you told the schizophrenic patient in the room that the government was monitoring him. -J**_

**Sent 10:01 AM**

_**Only because it's true. -S**_

**Sent 10:01 AM**

_**Honestly, if he was going to carry on about 'them bugging us', I should think the kind thing is to offer advice on how to disable the cameras. -S**_

**Sent 10:02 AM**

_**They had to sedate the man, Sherlock. They had to call security. -J**_

**Sent 10:02 AM**

_**I'm well aware. One of them took my picture as I was manhandled out. -S**_

**Sent 10:03 AM**

_**I really don't know why I bother at times. -J**_

"John Watson," bit out the receptionist. "Dr Thompson will see you now."

John sighed at his mobile, unsure why he had been drawn into a texted argument with a madman in a psychology office, of all places. He shoved the mobile back into his trousers pocket and stood from his chair.

"Thank you," he said with his warmest smile to the receptionist. "And, again, I'm really sorry about all of this." He gestured at the turned over furniture at the other side of the waiting room and a scowling security guard tasked with righting it all. "My friend, he's really not right in the head. Uh, you must see that a lot, though."

The receptionist groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. John took that as his cue to leave as quickly as humanly possible.

If Ella had been informed of the Sherlock-induced chaos that transpired in the waiting room, she certainly did not show it as she rose to greet John from her chair.

"John, it's been a while since our last meeting. You look well."

"Ah, well thanks, I suppose. Listen, the reason I never rescheduled all those months ago-I have a lot to explain—"

"Actually, I've been reading your blog. While it's certainly unconventional, you've seemed to improve your circumstances a great deal with your adventures—you and your new flatmate." She paused and frowned at a sheet of paper. "Before we get started, I thought you should know that I took a glance at the eval form you filled in at the front desk. It indicated that you believe you are 'persistently under the threat of grievous bodily harm from a friend or family member'. What did you mean by that?"

"You probably should just ignore that bit. It's really nothing, only some hypothetical murder plots Sherlock concocted for me while he was bored."

Ella stilled her fountain pen against her notebook. "Murder plots? Your flatmate is planning to murder you?"

"Hypothetically! It's all purely hypothetical! Everyone seems to be forgetting that! Hell, I even _volunteered_ to be his victim."

Ella raised an eyebrow and underlined something three times in her notebook. "And you're certain that there is no actual chance he would actually harm you?"

John must have paused longer than he intended by the concern that flashed over Ella's face. "He did take a bite out of me yesterday, but he wasn't entirely lucid," he explained, before realising that he was not improving the situation. "Look, it's not as if he can really dissolve me in a vat of hydrofluoric acid or work my eyeballs out with an ice cream scoop. That's mental, even for Sherlock Holmes!"

She blinked. "Did you just say an ice cream scoop?"

His mobile vibrated against his thigh. John gratefully fished it out, while rethinking his animosity towards technology. "Sorry—it might be an emergency at the clinic, just a moment."

**Sent 10:18 AM**

_**When I finish with the amygdalae, I want to splinter your skull apart with a cordless drill and strip away your brain tissue down to the stem. -S**_

"It's from him?" ventured Ella, in her irritatingly neutral voice.

John snapped his head up from the mobile. "Hold on, how did you know that?"

"Your posture relaxed when you read the text. You actually trust him, don't you?"

John tightened his lips into a thin line. "He said that he wants to poke holes into my head with a cordless drill until my skull shatters."

Her eyes widened, and she scribbled something into her notebook in a panic. "And how, exactly, would you respond to this hypothetical threat on your life, John?"

One of his fingers brushed the keyboard of his mobile. "I would tell the git that we don't own a cordless drill, but he could borrow a wired one from our landlady if it didn't terribly restrict his plot."

He took some guilty pleasure in watching his therapist ponder over everything that was wrong with that statement. Personally, John was still disturbed by the collection of power tools that dear old Mrs Hudson had stored away in her closet. After several false starts, Ella at last found her voice. "G-Go on, then."

John quickly punched out the text on his mobile and set the device aside. He braced himself for her inevitable interrogation. "Have you ever considered that your relationship with Sherlock Holmes is especially unusual, maybe even—"

John felt his brow knit at the word _relationship_ and sighed. "Not you, too. Listen, Sherlock and I, I'm not gay. He's a bloke—a brilliant, irritating, amazing, mad, childish—bloke. It's just not like that."

"It sounds as though your feelings for him are complicated."

John opened his mouth to stammer out a reply, but a reprieve came when the mobile vibrated again. He snatched it off the arm of his chair and scanned the message.

"John?" she prompted after a long moment of silence.

John broke eye contact from the lit screen. "He says a wired drill would limit the kill-room to one possibility instead of four."

John did not understand why she abruptly stood from her chair to shutter and lock the window. Then again, the practice of psychology had never been his specialty.

* * *

><p>Sherlock cracked a smile at the text on his mobile before his restlessness came itching at the back of his head with a vengeance. He irritably paced along the bottom step of the nondescript office building. It was the closest he was allowed to approach the front door, he realised, before the security guard—overpaid, police academy dropout, insomniac internet pornography addict—would push open the double glass doors and threaten to set his taser on him should he come any closer.<p>

Sherlock slumped down on the step and frowned at the view of the street. There were cars and taxis queued against a red light—_boring_—a yellow LED display scrolling the day's top headlines over the bank entrance across the road: _GLOBAL SUMMIT ON ENERGY CONTINUES TODAY AT PARLIAMENT_—_banal_—and average businessmen and women decked out in their ill-fitting work attire were obnoxiously yammering into their mobiles—_hateful_.

He weaved the tips of his fingers together as his thoughts galloped back to the case. As he had suspected for some time, Moriarty was involved in the plot. Not long ago he would have been exhilarated for another opportunity to challenge such a fascinating adversary, but now the realisation that Moriarty was so close struck him with a crippling wave of gravity. He did not understand this, nor why every time he thought of Moriarty the image of John's horrified expression flashed before his eyes.

It did not help matters that he did not know who Sebastian Moran was, even though it appeared that he played a central role in this plot. When he awoke lucid from his concussion, Sherlock scanned the file on Moran that Lestrade brought to the flat. While it was enlightening to note the connection between Moran and Ireland (and without a doubt, a certain Irish consulting criminal), the file hardly gave Sherlock the means to crack the case. In desperation, he had even appropriated John's mobile to text the number on the white business card. Not surprisingly, the text had returned unsent, the number belonging to Moran no longer receiving service. It left him only with a story of a soldier named Sebastian Moran and a growing sense of irritation at the dead ends that remained in his wake.

What Sherlock did know was that the conspiracy itself was not something that terribly concerned him. An amateur gang of drug peddlers had been recruited to transport an impressive amount of heroin from Dublin, but unbeknownst to all of them, one of the gangsters carried an item of far greater importance. When that item became lodged in the digestive system of one of the mules, the entire gang became accountable, desperate, and most unfortunately for two of the members, homicidal. It would seem that whether it was Moriarty or this mysterious Mr Moran, the entire gang was under the threat of death until this item had been retrieved.

The blaring of car horns chipped away at his reverie, and Sherlock glanced away from his folded hands with a frown creasing his face. Columns of cars were lined behind a blinking traffic light. Beyond the stagnant intersection, he could see that the lights at the next two blocks were faulty as well.

"Hello?"

"Are you there?"

"Can you hear me?"

The irritating voices of common London salary men floated over the droning horns.

As if it were choreographed, three of the pedestrians halted on the sidewalk, checking the screens of their mobiles for signal. Sherlock would have found this sort of social frenzy amusing if it were not for a growing uneasiness constricting his lungs. It prompted him to scrutinise his own phone, which currently had zero bars of signal. When he pocketed the useless device, he noticed that the LED display over the bank entrance was frozen between headlines.

"They can see us right now, you know." A jittery man with horn-rimmed glasses muttered. From nowhere the schizophrenic man from the waiting room had materialised by Sherlock's side.

He would have wondered how the man, who only minutes before had been sedated by three security guards, escaped a psychology office so easily, but with the chaos unfolding, he barely gave him a sideways glance. "Traffic lights, mobile phones, and a wireless news display. What do they have in common?" He said aloud more to himself than his new companion.

The schizophrenic man chewed the nail of his right index finger. "They have little chips planted under our skin that take frequencies that can track us."

"Frequencies. Yes, radio frequencies. The trigger!" Any criminal with an advanced enough understanding of radio waves could have hijacked the local wireless networks and render these few blocks into a dead zone. He would not put it beyond Moriarty, regardless of how he was involved. But what if there was a device that could hack any radio frequency at long range? Such a device would cripple the very infrastructure of the government. Certainly a thing such as this would be smuggled into the country with extraordinary care.

"They're coming for us. _They're coming for us!_" chanted the schizophrenic.

"Shut up," hissed Sherlock. The headline frozen on the LED display suddenly winked out of sight, and the entire screen fizzled with gibberish. Numbers, nonsensical letters and symbols flickered faster than the ordinary eye could see. Then the lights of the LED settled into a clear message that left Sherlock cold.

**_HELLO SHERLY. _**

Sherlock stopped breathing as he took a step towards the curb. The LED blinked back at him.

**_YOU DON'T LOOK WELL._**

**_MAYBE YOU SHOULD SEE YOUR DOCTOR._**

**_I CAN._**

"John," he breathed out with a desperate realisation. No longer in a collected state of mind, Sherlock raced up the steps of the building two at a time. He would find John in his psychologist's office on the second floor. He would find John safe, as he must be, because Sherlock would absolutely not let this happen again. He repeated those words in his head as he took each step and resolved to make it past that waiting room to prove it so.

He only made it past the double glass doors before the security guard tased him. Seconds after he fell to the floor fighting the involuntary convulsions of his muscles, a fire alarm sounded through the building, and he heard several shouts from the second floor. _John's floor. Someone had opened the emergency fire exit._

Sherlock managed to fight down his pain and crawl back outside the building. It was not the first time he had been shocked with a taser, nor was it likely to be his last, and by virtue of that, his recovery time was above average. Despite every fibre of muscle tissue screaming in protest, Sherlock clambered up the side of a stair rail. What he observed on the street only confirmed his worst premonitions.

A grey panel van screeched from the back of the building onto the pedestrian curb. Through the rear window, he glimpsed a familiar sandy beige patch of hair in the rough grasp of a thug. _They had John. _Forgetting that he currently had no muscle strength, Sherlock made a dash towards the van but merely tumbled down the steps. By the time he hit the pavement, he could hear the van's tires screeching into the city.

Glinting above him in mocking canary lights the same message repeated:

**_SHERLY COME AND PLAY._**

**_SHERLY COME AND PLAY._**

**_SHERLY COME AND PLAY._**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Reviews are not only appreciated—THEY ARE WORSHIPPED!<strong>_

_**tarcy:** Thanks, I do it for the lolz.** SweetChi: **__Thank you for your sweet review…sorry the update ended up being so late. __**CristaLake: **__Ha, I'm glad you liked that line. It remains perhaps one of the most fun things I wrote .**notquitesomethingelse**__: Thank you, thank you for your flattering review! It really got me motivated to keep going with this! __**Ju Lara:**__ I love you so much for reviewing all my chapters in strange order. I had good times reading them. __**CharmingKarma: **__Cheers for your review! Hope you like the next chapters, and I'm happy you had a good time with the stutter =) __**Icy Sapphire15:**__ I can't argue with the simple approach. Especially if it involves railroad tracks. __**A-Witty-Thing:**__ Well, it's been a while sense I've updated, but I mean it when I say reviews like yours are big motivators—I'm glad that the plot is also entertaining! __**sycamoretree: **__I honestly had way too much fun writing concussed Sherlock. He's an adorable dangerous sociopath we love.__** laceypinkdream:**__ I like chilling.__** TSylvestrisA:**__ I thank your morbid heart, and do hope that the mystery is decent, if not the insanity. __**It's-Teatime-Somewhere:**__ Happy you enjoyed my anagram (and homicidal, concussed Sherlock). __**Corey5268:**__ Concussed Sherlock is adorable because __he is__ confused and vulnerable and must do something with his mouth if he cannot speak properly ;). __**meredithriddle:**__ Hold on, you made me think of kittens with facemasks at play…even they are smarter then Anderson. Mew. __**crownedclown3293: **__Thank you thank you! I have to say that I had fun writing that last chapter! __**TheDoctorSherlock:**__ Thank me? I'm just doing my crazy thing, but thank you very much for enabling me! And best of luck hypothetically killing your friend. I would recommend dishwasher fluid, mercury and some saltines. You'll know why when you get there._


	7. The Confidence Game

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Warnings: Extreme violence (I'm not kidding on this one, I did not hold back this chapter). Homophobic insults and plenty of the stupids. Beware!**

* * *

><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Seven: The Confidence Game**

Sherlock scowled at the steel manacles that restrained his wrist to an appalling, coffee-stained desk. He ardently wished for a world in which a withering glare could melt holes through metal, although he would have just as happily settled for human flesh as the security manager of the office building hovered over him to impede the more practical method of picking the lock of the handcuffs.

In retrospect, dashing back into the very same building where not only a minute ago an irate guard tased him was probably not the most logical course of action. After the panel van that carried John sped beyond his line of vision, he could think of nothing but storming back into the psychiatry office in search of a witness, a clue, _anything_ that would lead him to where the Garrotter Street Rogues would have taken John. It irked him above all else that this had not proved to be a clever decision—not rational, just stupid, idiotic, simply John, John, _John_ screaming in his head.

To his credit, Sherlock managed to make it to the stairwell before the security officer hammered a nightstick into his fresh taser wound and sent him sprawling against the floor. By the time they managed to cuff him to the lobby desk, however, the situation in the office had changed in his favour. The whole lot of security guards had assembled on the first floor lobby with a sobbing Ella Thompson, accompanied with the rest of the building personnel and doctors. After a nauseatingly long period of 5.6 minutes elapsed, the idiots wielding the electrically charged weapons were informed of John's kidnapping, and the security manager was now offering him a fumbling apology while he remained shackled.

"And so you understand, we didn't know you were with the man who was abducted—our boy thought you were dangerous and—"

Sherlock glowered. "As I _understand_ it, the only _thought_ your officer had was whether 29.99 quid was too much to watch a Uni drop-out take her clothes off behind a cheap webcam. It is." The manager frowned at his blanching subordinate, who immediately slammed his laptop shut. Sherlock could envision John wagging his head in disapproval mouthing the words _not good. _Nevertheless, he could not spare the effort to be agreeable, not when John was in danger; certainly John would understand that?

He tugged at his handcuffs to obtain a better view of a distraught Dr Thompson, who was seated several metres from him. She dejectedly held herself in her arms as a medic from a neighbouring suite in the building tended to a gash at her hairline. Her receptionist appeared to be in no better condition.

"Sarah!" he shouted to the frazzled doctor.

"E-Ella. My name is Ella," she choked out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's irrelevant. Tell me now in this order: what did you see, what were their number, did they say anything, was John hurt, are you involved?"

Ella cried aloud at the last question. "W-What, no! I didn't! He's my patient!"

"You're not answering my questions in order!"

She shrunk away from Sherlock. "O-Order?" she wailed. "They just burst into the office. C-Came through the f-fire escape the staff pr-props open to have a smoke! John tried to fight them—he—he—"

"What the hell!" interrupted the security manager. Everyone focussed their attention back to Sherlock, who was now standing with an unlocked set of handcuffs dangling from his wrist.

"Oh, don't mind me, I was just leaving," Sherlock replied flatly to the perplexed guards and a terrified Dr Thompson.

Ella sputtered, "B-But my story—"

"—is horrendously dull and fraught with no detail whatsoever, yes. But somehow you did manage to draw attention to yourself, allowing me the eleven seconds necessary to pick the lock on these. Thank you for that."

"You—You can't just waltz out of here!" huffed the manager.

He sighed impatiently. "No, actually, _I can_. As Emma was likely to say, she was clobbered on the head—by the back of a revolver as it appears by the wound—just like the receptionist and every other person that had the pleasure of confronting a gang of well-armed thugs."

"My name is E-Ella," interjected Dr Thompson.

"It is all very unsurprising that she cannot remember anything of detail let alone her own name. Every second that I waste in this place rots my thinking process, and I really must apprehend the band of _serial killers_ that have abducted my flatmate," he hurried to the double glass doors, and pulled them open before one of the befuddled guards could contemplate unsheathing his Taser. "It's been lovely."

As he jogged down the stairway leaving the morons in his wake, Sherlock mentally upbraided himself for his severe lapse in judgment. It was mistake to even consider entering that contemptible building. Why had he momentarily allowed his emotions to crack his veneer of logic? It could certainly do John no good; John, who not long ago was strapped to a block of Semtex in front of a glowing pool, terror emanating from his eyes, and a laser sight gleaming on his chest.

_None of that! _Emotions were of no use, and he learned long ago that his caring was meaningless towards his objectives. Sherlock wiped clean the churning maelstrom his mind had become and redoubled his efforts to pinpoint the gangsters. No doubt the panel van was well on its way to Islington. Would they be at that bar, the Savage Serpent? _Improbable: too many witnesses. _They would more likely hole up in an abandoned building, but even in a single borough, there were too many to search given the rate of foreclosure and crime in the city.

It was in these situations that Sherlock did not understand why John so pointedly refused to be injected with a GPS tracking device several months ago. He would have barely felt the implant, but John angrily quipped that he "wasn't a lost dog."

But John was lost. In grudging desperation, Sherlock flipped open his mobile. At finding that the signal had returned to his device, he quickly dialled the Met and the extension for Lestrade's office. Yet before he heard the first monotone ring he knew that this would be of no help to him. Not only would the Yard impede his search with all their questions and "rules", but what would the Rogues do to John if they heard obnoxious sirens approaching their hideaway?

Lestrade answered on the second stretch of ringing. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Hello?"

"You're useless," he concluded.

"What? Sherlock, is that you?"

"Brilliant deduction. At your current rate you may well outpace the schizophrenic man who is shouting abuse at pigeons on the pavement corner. All the best with that."

"Sherlock! Is this your idea of a crank call? Don't you forget, Lad, that I can still—"

He disconnected the call, and in frustration, he turned his gaze to the corner where he last saw the panel van abscond with John. A harassed flock of pigeons briefly shrouded his vision, and Sherlock followed their path down to the wiry schizophrenic patient who he had previously sent spiralling into an episode. The man was now throwing poorly aimed kicks at the birds.

"Go, fly to your master, you spies of Belial!" he shrieked.

Ah good. So the man was recovering spectacularly.

Another harried bird squawked away. "Big Brother cannot bug our waffles! The syrup is too thick!"

"Big Brother," Sherlock hissed aloud. An unpleasant thought dawned on him. A covert device smuggled into London, most likely capable of annexing control of a wide range of electromagnetic frequencies: if such a thing existed, it would fall within the domain of a certain minor government official. It was in Mycroft's power to locate the building, certainly given the criteria Sherlock had already deduced. Asking Mycroft for help made his skin crawl, but he forcefully reminded himself that John was in danger, that time was slipping away. He pulled out his mobile and glanced at the now-functioning LED display across the street.

…_GLOBAL SUMMIT ON ENERGY CONTINUES TODAY AT PARLIAMENT…_

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards as he dialled the hated number. At least he would be interrupting something important.

He could almost see Mycroft's antagonising smirk as he rumbled into the phone, "Dear Brother."

Sherlock practically cringed into his mobile with a sarcastic smile. "Brother, Dear."

* * *

><p>A jagged pain threaded its way up John's right arm as he was jostled in his car seat. At first he thought that he could hear the rough voices of several men growling at him like bears. Then there was that needle-sharp twinge in the crook of his elbow followed by a warm haze that kept his thoughts swimming for purchase. When he opened his eyes he saw dancing prisms of light, swirling shapes; he even swore that he could smell the colour red. It was better to keep his eyes shut, he realised, but not long after resolving this, the animalistic voices threatening to devour him grew quiet and were replaced with a singular, comforting tone.<p>

"John."

He hesitantly blinked his eyes open into the silence, and found that the roiling soup of colours had disappeared. He was in the back seat of a military Land Rover aside Sherlock wearing his standard-issue uniform, down to his helmet. Sherlock, for his part, was perfectly tailored in a high-contrast combination of his typical black suit with a white, high-collared button-up.

"Wha-What…Sherl?" he mumbled in a weak voice.

"Ah, excellent. For a brief moment I thought you had exchanged minds with a goldfish, although it appears your memory is far worse. I'll repeat myself: the case John, I want your opinion on the case." Sherlock glanced out the Land Rover window as though he were being transported in an ordinary cab. _Perhaps Land Rovers were cabs now_, mused John. It made as much sense as anything else here.

"The…case? Those thugs are offing each other to obtain some kind of object for this Sebastian Moran bloke. Don't know why they're threatening you, though…don't they know that all you can do is identify which one of them—"

Sherlock honed his silver eyes on him. "What are you clamouring on about? The only case that I have been working is that of your murders."

John stiffened. "My, My what?"

"Murders. You have been murdered seven times, all in different fashions—quite invigorating." The Land Rover slowed in front of a familiar block of row houses. Sherlock thrummed to himself and began texting on his mobile. "Never mind your opinion now; it seems we're at the scene of the latest one. Go on up. I'll follow shortly."

Before he could protest, John found himself on the curb facing the stoop of 221 Baker Street. He glanced past his shoulder, but the consulting detective within the Land Rover did not even look up from his mobile.

_Spirited away—_it was the only phrase he thought appropriate enough to describe what was happening to his body. At one moment he was standing in front of the chipped door of their flat, and the next, he felt like he was being dragged up the stairway against his volition. The rough men's voices from the Land Rover violated his thoughts after his shin smashed against the splintery steps, but John could not identify what was spoken. It must have been after dozens of steps—far greater than the ordinary seventeen—that John felt his alien body catapult through the entrance of 221B.

"Back already? Have you done the shopping this time?" queried a low voice from the kitchen.

John froze. "Sherl—Sherlock? But how did you—you were just down—?"

Nevertheless, it _was_ Sherlock who emerged around the corner wearing his plaid housecoat-turned-lab coat and a disappointed frown. "Is that a 'no'? Then perhaps you might make yourself useful and hand me that extension cord on the armchair. I'm terribly busy at the moment, John."

Before he could fumble out a response, Sherlock vanished back into the kitchen. In his cloud of confusion, John complied with the request, snatched the extension cord, wheeled around to the kitchen, and—

_Dear God. _

The walls were splattered with an abstract mosaic of crimson blood, some of it still freshly weeping downwards. Displayed like a freshly cut Christmas ham on the kitchen table were slices of bone and pink tissue, neatly encased in a gingerbread outline of flesh. With medical precision a man had been reduced to a stack of vertical thin sections. It was only when John saw tufts of a blood-soaked oatmeal corded sweater that he began to dry heave.

"Oh, John. Good, the cable." John whitened at the voice humming behind him. Sherlock now wore a scarlet-splattered face shield that was lifted above his forehead. In his right hand he wielded a dripping, circular bone saw.

"Sherlock, _what the fuck!"_ Without the words to aid him, he gestured at the carnage. _"WHAT the FUCK, SHERLOCK!"_

"I was going to clean it up…" Sherlock began petulantly. He pulled a face of serious deliberation. "But I suppose you do have a point. It did not turn out how I had visualised." He pulled down the facemask. "Let's give it another try, shall we? This time, horizontal sections!"

John uselessly shielded himself with his hands. "Sherl! I don't know what this is—an experiment, a game or some kind of ploy for you to have a cigarette, but you just can't!"

Sherlock moved his hand off the switch to the bone saw with a rueful expression. "Do you really think so little of me, John?" he said quietly, and John could see his eyes beneath the facemask glowing nearly emerald at those words. "Why do you think I'm doing this? All this effort, only for you."

At once, he switched on the bone saw and plunged it into John's ribcage. "Hold still!" he exclaimed with a childish grin as John shrieked. "I want this to be perfect for us both!"

* * *

><p>When John next opened his eyes, the room had grown dark. It was a thick, suffocating murk that impeded even the uncertain fluttering of his eyelashes and seized onto his thoughts like molten tar. Despite the stalling of his mind and body, he felt a persistent vibration in his trousers pocket. His mobile? What had happened, where was he? Before he could process the state of his intact body, a shadow loomed over him, and he felt a dull pain ringing across the side of his head.<p>

"Shut up, faggot! Quit yer moanin'!" growled the shadow.

"Lee what's that noise? Is that a mobile? What the hell did I tell you about searchin' him?"

"He was out of it, Dawson, so I figured why bother?"

"Just take it from him, you fuckin' twat!"

John's shoulders jumped when the same rough pair of hands that had struck him suddenly dug into his trousers pocket for the mobile. He involuntarily attempted to wriggle away from the sour-breathed man, but realised that in addition to his inhibited state of mind, his hands were bound behind his chair with scratchy cords. As the full extent of the situation came floating through John's head, his captor robbed him of his mobile.

"Is there a text? What's it say?" demanded the voice belonging to Dawson.

The room illuminated with an electric glow as Lee switched on his mobile. John's eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he could make out the outlines of five men: the Garrotter Street Rogues, among them Dawson, Lee and the third man from the pub whose name John did not recall. His memory of the abduction at Ella's office flickered through his mind like a fragment of a day-old dream.

A disgusted yelp resonated in the room. "You—You sick, bender!"

"'Ey, Lee, arsehole, read it aloud!" growled another of the Rogues.

To John's surprise, the large thug's voice shook as he read from the mobile. "It-It says 'I will peel your face over your skull and downwards until your muscles are naked of their flesh. Then I will drain your blood and replace it with molten wax.'"

John brightened. _Sherlock._ Whether it was a bone saw-slashing sociopath or the enigmatic, emotionally stunted flatmate that drove him up the walls, John never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes more than in that singular moment.

A hopeful ache sprung from John's chest cavity just as an unsettled silence permeated the room. Dawson angrily paced in a circle. "What the fuck is that!"

"_A warning." _

In unison, the five men turned to the doorway with their weapons drawn. Sherlock's lanky outline framed the shadows, and as he stepped into the bare room, John could make out the forbidding glare burning out of his tungsten jade eyes. Despite the Rogues pointing their pistols and revolvers in his direction, the wooden floorboards continued to register Sherlock's footsteps into the room with a stubborn and steady creak.

"It is a taste of what I shall bring upon you should John Watson come to any harm." He glanced to where John was bound to the chair. "Hello, John."

John forced a wry smile. "What took so long? Couldn't get a cab for once?" It was the first time that he attempted to speak in his haze, and judging by the way Sherlock glared at the men, John realised the words had not come out well.

"What have you given him?" Sherlock inquired crisply.

By this time, the Rogues had regained much of their former bravado. Dawson stepped forward aiming his pistol between Sherlock's eyes. "We gave ya more than enough time, Mr Holmes, by the looks of how fast ya found yer poof. Where's the trigger?"

"_What_ have you given him?"

"Only a case of the reds," hissed the gang leader impatiently. "Now the trigger—"

"Barbiturates," Sherlock growled in disgust. "Are you imbeciles? Of course you are. What good is it to ply a hostage with depressants? The only practical secret John keeps is how to make a decent cuppa, but in this state I doubt he can even speak the words 'Earl Grey.'"

"Sherlock," warned John. Perhaps the annoying git had a cataract preventing him from seeing the five guns aimed at his head.

"If you want any kind of information from your hostages, other than hours of drivel and sick over the floorboards, you might consider cutting off some fingers, plucking out molars—"

"SHERLOCK!" cried John.

"Enough of this!" hissed another Rogue. "Tell us where the trigger is or we'll do somethin' much worse, ya sick Freak!"

The right edge of Sherlock's lip curled. "And what would you do?"

Some of the gangsters were certainly not expecting this sort of swagger from a slender, unarmed man by the way they were exchanging glances. John was almost certain in the poor lighting that a vein was bulging in Dawson's neck. "Ya seem to be thinkin' this is a game," he hissed. He turned his pistol away from Sherlock's head and took aim at John. "The trigger. Who has it? Now."

John's heartbeat hammered against his eardrums. Sherlock ran a hand over his forehead. As one panicked thought raced through John's brain after another, he felt a fleeting sense of relief that Sherlock was finally recognising the grim reality of the situation, that was, until the consulting detective opened his mouth to speak.

"Amateurs," he murmured.

"What was that?" demanded Dawson.

"You're all amateurs! The barbiturates and now a shooting? How bloody unoriginal can you be! Are you going to give me the count of three next?" Sherlock threw up his arms in revulsion, and he crossed the room in John's direction.

"Sherlock, _no_!" John scolded. Two of the Rogues uncertainly raised their pistols on Sherlock with every intention to fire. John nearly passed out in relief when an extremely irritated Dawson waved them down.

"He won't feel a thing! He won't even know when he's shot in his state!" To make this point, the back of Sherlock's hand went flying, and before he knew it, John's head lolled back at the sound of a crisp slap. "Do you see now? It's a completely inadequate death!"

"God damn it, Sherlock!" he screamed, apathetic to whether or not he could be understood. "My death is hypothetical! _Hypothetic—"_ John abruptly closed his mouth when he felt something cold and thin press between his knuckles while Sherlock steadied his chair. John stealthily explored the edges of the object with his fingers—it was a metal razor.

_Oh, you mad, suicidal idiot. _If Sherlock had walked into the room collected and cold, he would have gotten them both killed the moment he took a step in his direction. Instead the detective was able to blitz the gangsters with confusion by playing his own perverse game.

"That's it! I've had it of this fuckin' faggot!" shouted Lee. "Dawson, if you ain't shootin' the prick then I am!"

Whatever patience that had once defined Dawson as the leader of the Rogues vanished. "I think we'll shoot your boy between the eyes and then take turns blowing holes into that damned pleased face o' yours!"

John swallowed hard as he locked eyes with the barrel of one of the guns. He willed his hands to remain steady as he dragged the flimsy razor against the cords that held him captive. He could only hope that Sherlock had one final ploy that would give him the time he needed.

Instead he was alarmed to find the consulting detective pulling his mobile from his coat pocket. With grim flourish, Sherlock displayed the screen, which glowed with a dialled number. "It's for you."

The sound that followed was muted, and for a moment, John abandoned his struggle against his cords in an effort to hear it above the artificial tone emitted from Sherlock's own device. Nonetheless, the effect it had on the Garrotter Street Rogues was instantaneous. They lowered their weapons and stood frozen in wide-eyed terror as the persistent ringing grew louder.

…_ding-ding…Ding-Ding…DING-DING!_

Sherlock glared at them pitilessly. "You demanded the trigger of me, but I wonder that within all this stupid you really knew what that meant. You murdered two of your familiars, well, late-familiars, because you thought one of you smuggled it. Turns out you were correct on this point."

The ringing lingered amongst the gangsters, its echo only now impeded by the obvious fact that the object creating the noise was muffled by the soft tissues of a man's body. Sherlock let out a bored sigh that was betrayed by the childish manner in which he pointed at each of the hysterical men. He counted away, "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggarman…"

He left the last word unsaid and outstretched his finger in Dawson's direction, where the sound was now undeniably resonating.

"Boss," whispered Lee. For a moment no one twitched a muscle. Even Sherlock Holmes remained silent. It was a prelude to the chaos about to unravel.

A gunshot hammered into the ceiling from Dawson's revolver. "Ya fuckers stay the hell away from me!"

The other four men descended over their leader. "Boss, ya know—we can't!"

"He'll be killin' us all if we don't!" exclaimed another Rogue as he unsheathed a knife.

"Sorry! We're sorry, Boss!"

John closed his eyes and heard a second gunshot pursued by an inhuman scream. When he reopened them, Sherlock's pale, determined expression was centimetres away. "John!"

Sherlock mercifully twisted his chair away from the direction of the hellish squealing, and swiftly pulled away at the frayed restraints holding him captive. If John had the strength, he would have stood to his full height, and punched Sherlock in the face for everything he had endured in the last ten minutes, effective or not. Unfortunately, the most his muscles would concede was a clumsy lurch forward.

One of Sherlock's palms prevented him from smacking into the floor. "Sherlock, that was by far the most idiotic thing you have done! You could have killed us both!" He heard himself slur.

"John," he repeated with a whisper. John quieted at finding Sherlock's frosted-green eyes flickering with all the emotion he had last seen at the swimming pool. Concern, fright, relief, devotion, and uncategorised depth swam in his eyes. "I would not abduct you and blunt your senses with barbiturates. I would not restrain you to a splintered chair with an atrocious nylon cord. I would never callously shoot you between the eyes with a pistol."

John gazed at him, momentarily at a loss for words. It did not take him long to find them once more. "Sherl…your forehead."

Sherlock placed a hand in front of his forehead and froze. A red dot glimmered against his fingertips on a direct path to his frontal lobe. He stiffened as he gazed over John's shoulder to the shadow aiming an HK417 sniper rifle from the doorway.

"Tinker-tailor. That's quality. That I'll have to use some time." The shadow chuckled and stepped forward. "Sebastian Moran. It's a true pleasure."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Dramatic music sting! And on to I Heart My Reviewers! Your reviews are tastier than human flesh!<em>**

**peacepisces: **_Thank you thank you thank you for such an amazing review! It really made my day, especially since I'm trying hard to keep the characters IC :)! _**ThisIsNotReality: **_Sorry for the long updates, but I will not leave this story unfinished! And it feels absolutely wonderful to be called a good writer :)! _**meredithriddle: **_Thanks for another thoughtful review! I probably didn't make it clear enough, but Sherlock saw John through the window of the panel van speeding off, and it was implied he knew John was on the second floor when he heard noises there during the kidnapping. And your comment about the amygdala isn't idiotic; I was personally interested in it because there are studies linking it to PTSD and fear. It's very interesting to converse with someone about this stuff! _**Howlynn: **_Hahaha, Kuru, that's definitely something to watch out for. And I agree, I think Ella might be wasting her time and perhaps will need some counselling herself after this chapter. _**Cristalake: **_Thank you for your sweet and encouraging reviews!_ _I actually haven't heard of podfics before you mentioned it, but I have no objections if you want to. Can you do a British accent ;)? _**Ju Lara: **_I can clearly visualise Mrs Hudson sipping a cuppa and revving up a chainsaw. And I like your idea about the kidnappers, but I had fun screwing with them in my own way in this chapter. _**Sweetness inna Lick: **_Awesome, when I've made someone laugh at loud, I know I'm doing something insane. Thank you for reviewing (and I love your name!)._

And **thank you to the four anonymous reviewers** who left comments! You guys really made me happy!


	8. A Hostage Situation

**Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.**

**Ahhhhhgggghh! I'm so very sorry for not updating this so long! My reason? Two words: Grad School. And science. For science. That's another two words. I have no qualms about admitting that I'm a bad person, but for those who kept following and reviewing despite my lack of updating (and those who read this thing in general) I can't tell you how motivating you have been towards getting me back on track! So I give you AN UPDATE! YAY!**

**Still a bad person,**

**-MSSH**

**Warnings: Temper tantrums. 80's rave music.**

* * *

><p><strong>Hypothetically<strong>

**Chapter Eight: A Hostage Situation**

"Sebastian Moran. It's a true pleasure."

The red laser sight wavered half a centimetre over Sherlock's temple as Sebastian stepped into the barren room. His tall frame nearly eclipsed the door as he carried himself forward with a robotic grace that was an affront to the carnage splattering the floors. He pointedly ignored the disembowelled deadman and the trembling gangsters assembled around the corpse.

While his senses were still dampened by the thick fog of barbiturates, John could at once register how different this man was from the tormentor in his nightmare. The Moran from his dream had been a doppelganger of his military portrait, but whatever resemblance the slender giant standing before him had to a soldier of the SAS had been horribly twisted. His hair had darkened to a shade of murky blonde from years spent away from active duty in the bleaching sunlight. John only caught the briefest flicker of light glinting in Moran's cobalt eyes; they were arctic abysses, void of all sane emotion, as they focussed on the consulting detective.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied, as calmly as one could with a sniper rifle aimed at one's frontal lobe.

"Oh, yes," said Sebastian, "I've been anticipating a face to face meeting for some time. I really must say that after seeing you up close, well, you really are quite something."

"Moran!" interjected one of the Garrotter Street Rogues. The man took an audacious step forward and held up a small lump of crimson pulp for examination. "We've found the Trigger! Now let us—"

Without averting his eyes from them, Sebastian angled his rifle and fired a single gunshot clean into the gangster's shoulder. "Do not interrupt me. I was in the middle of a conversation." He frowned at the horrified wail that poured into the room; nonetheless, he heedlessly returned the laser sight onto Sherlock's temple.

As he waited for the agonised moaning to die into quieter, bitter sobbing, Sebastian tilted his head in John's direction. "And you must be _Captain _John Watson." He gave him mock salute. "Always lovely to meet another one of Her Majesty's soldiers."

Anger pulsed through John's chest. "Do not even place us in the same category," he managed to bite out, his drugged and dulled mind be damned.

A chuckle hummed from Moran, and John could not tell whether it was directed at his slurred speech or it was simple contempt from the derelict ex-soldier. "Give it some time. You will realise that a tin medal is the only difference between what they call honour and complete idiocy."

John's knuckles tightened. Before he could growl out a retort, Sherlock pressed a dissuading hand on his shoulder.

"You were among the snipers at the swimming pool all those months ago," said Sherlock.

Sebastian flashed him an evanescent smirk. "I'm flattered that you would remember."

The consulting detective tapped at the red dot glowing menacingly over his forehead. "I do not easily forget the manner in which the barrel of a gun is aimed at my skull. No doubt you were hunting at long range as child years before your service—snipes, perhaps?"

"You're doing that party trick of yours, aren't you?" Sebastian chuckled. "James said that you would."

"He also says hi, or am I to understand that you can afford a surplus of dead gangsters in the Bristol Channel?" parried Sherlock.

"Clever boy. I should say that he knows you rather well, and I can see why. A mind like his and yours are frightfully similar," he speculated aloud.

Sherlock said nothing. The image of the detective wielding the circular bone saw from his most recent nightmare came rushing to the forefront of John's mind, and he bitterly suppressed it. The man standing at his side, the man that had come to rescue him, was nothing like Jim Moriarty.

Unsatisfied with the silence, Sebastian crooned derisively, "Telllllll me, Sherlock Holmes. I'm thinking of a number between one and one hundred. If you can guess it, I may just let you and Captain Watson, over there, escape with your lives."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "And regardless of the outcome, this Trigger of yours remains where it is?"

"Naturally I cannot allow you to spoil all of my plans," replied Sebastian. He glanced at the mutilated crimson mass that was once the leader of the Garrotter Street Rogues. "The innovations of the 21st century—GPS surveillance, RFID chips, a wireless infrastructure—how spectacularly idiotic is it that a radio device fused together from copper and plastic in the Cold War Era could bypass its security with some basic upgrades?"

"I suppose you will no doubt use said device to acquire any amount of wealth your criminal enterprise could imagine?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"The money," muttered Sebastian with a roll of his eyes. "They always assume it's about the money! How can you of all people, Mr Holmes, continue to underestimate us? The Global Summit on Energy is currently underway. I would hazard a guess that half the attendees have RFID implants. Now what should happen if we were to circumvent the jammers and eavesdrop those frequencies? It would hardly be difficult to breach their security— discover all sorts of fascinating information, nuclear or otherwise. And that's not even the icing on the cake. Simply imagine the doors this device could open!"

"All that I imagine that this Trigger will have ever opened are the stomachs of several low-class criminals," retorted Sherlock.

The strangled groans of the wounded gangster still permeated into each silence that elapsed. John was grateful that his chair was angled away from the worst of the carnage, but just as another moan pierced into the room, a disturbing thought prickled into his muddled brain. "You're assuming that we're not leaving this room if you've already told us this much."

Sebastian re-focussed the laser sight over Sherlock's forehead. Its red glow reflected into his eyes as his lips wound upwards like a coiling snake. "I do not make assumptions, Captain Watson. I guarantee them." He beamed at Sherlock. "It will almost be a pity to put a bullet in that pretty face, but—"

Moran paled as a cheery, tropical ringtone effectively cut him off and reverberated into the room.

_Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl~_

_With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there…_

Sebastian cringed, and after two seconds of internal bickering, he awkwardly lowered his rifle. Sherlock exchanged a half amused, half nonplussed look with John as the ex-SAS-Colonel-turned-mercenary frantically patted his pockets for his mobile.

_She would merengue and do the cha-cha~_

Sebastian turned his back to them, and he answered the phone with a growl, "Yeah? No—No, I'm not in a strop, I was in the middle of something, and have you changed my ringtone again? What the hell did I tell you about changing it!" He exhaled sharply, and his voice softened. "Look, I'm not angry—Yes, really. _I mean it._"

When Sebastian turned around, he found Sherlock pulling John upright from his chair. He fired a warning round into the decayed ceiling. "_DON'T YOU MOVE!"_

John felt his knees buckle at the sound, and he would have collapsed if Sherlock had not captured him in his arms and anchored the bulk of his weight against his chest. John swallowed hard and stared at the gun-wielding psychopath only to find that he had returned to quietly speaking into the mobile.

"Well, yes, they're both here. Of course I am, why else would you tell me to bring my rifle?" Sebastian paused. "What? I doubt that's—" He grimaced. "Yes. Alright then, I'm putting you on speaker."

As a frustrated Sebastian Moran all but impaled his finger through touchscreen of his mobile, John had a dreadful premonition about whom he was about to hear on the other end of the line.

The soft, Irish voice poured through the small device. "Sebs? Am I on speaker now?"

The moment Moriarty spoke, John could feel the muscles in Sherlock's chest pull tight against his back. "Can you hear us now?" Sherlock answered dryly.

"Oh, brilliant, Sherly's there! Come to retrieve your pet, did you? Won't you say hello, Doctor?" Moriarty exclaimed. John bit his lip to hold back what he wanted to say, which was the farthest thing from hello. "No? Well, boys, all pleasantries aside, I have an important query for the both of you, so listen closely: did Sebs threaten you with that HK417 of his?"

Sebastian sighed heavily into his shoulder. Propped to his feet by Sherlock, John was now capable of surveying the complete bloodshed before them. He saw the glistening pool of murk that was Dawson's blood and the four crouched, dry-heaving shadows of his fellow gangsters circled about his body. One man squirmed in feverish pain amid the havoc.

"I think he's done a hell of a lot more than that," John hissed, careful of his slurring affect.

"Ah, Johnny-boy, there you are! I thought Sebs might have 'jumped the gun' as they say!" Moriarty trailed away with several patronising clicks of his tongue that puttered over the mobile speaker. "Now Sebs, dear, what did I tell you in Dublin? _Mind your_ _temper._" Sebastian mouthed the same words in unison while bobbing his head with contempt. "Keep that in mind, especially when circumstances become a bit more interesting."

"Am I to take that as a compliment, _James?_" snapped Sherlock. "You were expecting me to follow your trail the moment you concocted this plan."

A snort rattled over the speaker. "Oh no, heavens, _no_, darling! It's insulting that you would even believe I would devise this debacle! Sebastian had all the honours there. He wanted to play so very badly since our last tête-à-tête, and who was I to deny him a spot of fun after he generously funded the entire operation?"

"Old money," added Sebastian with a dark laugh. He impatiently tapped the tip of the rifle against his shin. "Well, I say old, but Father was a mere 53 when he chewed his bullet, leaving me the keys to the estate."

"Sebs has been one of my more _enthusiastic_ backers, but perhaps we would both agree that his planning leaves something to be desired," continued Moriarty.

Sebastian's grin faltered. "I have the Trigger, James."

"After it was lost for how long, exactly?" taunted Moriarty. "Sebs, if you would like a smuggling operation to go well, use immigrants. You can slaughter them all after with little mess and even fewer questions."

"Or if you wish to avoid the questions entirely a corpse or two should suffice," suggested Sherlock. "What? I think that would be most practical," he replied after John dug his fingernails into his forearm.

"Sherlock, don't consult the consulting criminals," John grumbled. They were hardly at an advantage, cornered by an unstable sniper with a fully loaded assault weapon, and Sherlock was not helping. However, it was unlikely that Sherlock's suggestion had much of an impact as the two psychopaths were now enthusiastically quarrelling.

"James, I sorted it all out!"

"Oh yes, Sebs, clever work, that. Although next time if you would like to save a day or two, perhaps you might sever some of their heads and watch them flail about London like pheasants!"

John felt Sherlock shifting his stance in exasperation, and when he hazarded a glance back at the consulting detective, he appeared to be longing for the laser sight to return on his forehead. "Oh no, never mind us. We will merely stand here with a rifle aimed in our general direction," he mumbled.

Moriarty continued with Sebastian heedlessly. "My argument is that evisceration cannot possibly be a gainful alternative to—"

"Uh, Sir? Excuse me?" A quiet voice interrupted Moriarty over the speaker, thankfully before Sherlock had that opportunity. "Are you ready to order? There are other customers in the queue."

The consulting criminal let out an exaggerated groan over the speaker. "Very well. Let's have a Grande Caramel Frappuccino. Sebs, would you like anything?"

Sebastian's answer was strained. "No. I do not. Want. Anything."

John made a face. Was Moriarty, this sick lunatic, having this conversation in—? _No, he could not seriously…_

"And a Grande Soy Vanilla Cream. That's his favourite."

"No! _I don't want it!_" roared Sebastian.

"Well, then. Make it a tall." A pause lingered over the speaker in which there was an obvious exchange of cash. The nebulous image of the consulting criminal debating the finer points of disembowelling live drug mules in a bustling Starbucks permanently curbed John's future desires for personalised coffee.

Moriarty's voice arched over the speaker to rouse him from that disturbing resolution, his melodic voice descending into a darker inflection. "What it comes down to, is that you boys have a deplorable talent for poking little holes into matters that are beyond you."

"Oh good, I was concerned that you had forgotten about us," muttered Sherlock.

"Never, Sugar. The fact of that matter is that you poke, and you poke—and without even realising the flood that's about to come down, you keep having at it. Just look at how you've upset poor Sebastian. Frankly, my dears, I'm beginning to question my decision to let you both live." Moriarty's voice lowered an octave. "_And I hate to question myself._"

The effect Moriarty's change of inflection had upon Sebastian was immediate. No longer sulking like a spoilt child, he straightened his posture with his eyes fixed on the threatening mobile.

"Um, Sir? Would you like whipped cream on these?" queried the distant voice of an oblivious barista.

"Of course I want whipped cream!" snarled Moriarty. "In fact, if you fail to top these frozen drinks with whipped cream, I will rip out your tongue, force you to chew it to bits, and I will use it as garnish for the Vanilla Cream!"

A peculiar smile came over Sherlock's face as he mulled over the threat towards the poor Starbucks employee, and John stifled a groan. The last problem that he needed, on top of everything else, was to have Sherlock influenced by the psychopath attempting to murder them.

"Sebs." Moriarty's Irish cadence did not lift from its menace. "Time for Plan B."

Sebastian hesitated several moments before venturing to answer. "But James—Jim, we have the Trigger. We could still—"

"I'm quite aware that you likely revealed the details of your ill-conceived plan. You have a weakness for speaking too much when you panic. Do not upset Daddy, Sebs. Plan B." A long-suffering sigh pulsed out of the mobile speaker. "As for you, Sherly, so sorry that we could not play this bout together. You boys will just have to make the most of it without me! But I do have other appointments to run off to, so ta-ta." The speaker on the mobile curtly silenced with a click.

"Damn it! Plan B," Sebastian growled at the phone. "Fucking Plan B!"

Before John could stop him, Sherlock derisively raised a hand. "Just curious—do you enjoy the Vanilla Cream for the tongue garnish or because it's soy?"

John felt the air rushing past him from the force of a bullet before he even heard it crackle from Moran's rifle. He blanched upon realising that it had passed only centimetres from Sherlock's head into the wall behind them. "Sherlock, _bad_," he hissed against his friend.

Sebastian briskly strode towards the congealing puddle of blood at the farthest corner of the room, and he kicked away the whimpering gangster that he had shot. Barely shifting his weight to his toes he reached for the ceiling, and with a swift tug, he pulled down a collapsible ladder leading to the attic above.

"Mr M-Moran?" One of the Rogues timidly asked. Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the ill-fated individual from his perch halfway up the creaky ladder. "Are you going to let us free now?"

"Wait here for another hour. A courier of mine will collect the Trigger. Then you'll be free as snipes, gentlemen." he replied with a grim smile. Instead of reassuring the wretches under his control any further, he directed his HK417 back at Sherlock's direction.

"Should we cross paths again, there will be far more than a pence-sized beam against your head." John held his breath as Sebastian shifted the laser sight from Sherlock's forehead to his temple. "In fact, I might just be looking forward to it." Sebastian held his rifle on John's forehead for an extra second before catapulting himself through the attic door.

"Until then," Sherlock flatly replied. His only answer was the thick and brisk thump of the attic door being shuttered behind the sniper.

John let out a ragged sigh as his shoulders slumped against Sherlock. With the adrenaline pumping spindles of ice down his arms and legs and the drugs still lingering in his bloodstream, the floor beneath his feet felt as if it was liquid. In spite of himself, an alien sensation bubbled out of his mouth. It started with a few chuckles, but the more he attempted to force it down out of propriety, the less he succeeded. "Sorry it's…just, um," he began between giggles at sensing Sherlock's frame stiffening in confusion. "_Soy _Vanilla Cream."

A snicker escaped Sherlock, and John felt the other man's chest vibrate against his back as they dissolved into a fit of laughter amongst the grisly murder scene. "What a ponce," John added before launching into another bout of giggling. However, the detective tensed behind him at once, and the grip Sherlock had on his arms turned bone-crushing.

"John," he said, barely above a whisper. As John's laughter trailed away, he noticed, but did not quite understand, the reason for his friend's distress. A long synthesiser riff—the first note in an ominous performance—resonated through the building. It was stereo music, and as that one ringing note climbed in volume with electric flourish, John realised it was a rather appalling 80's tune. Certainly just that would not quicken Sherlock's pulse, but as the second riff vibrated through the room, it was enough to send him moving forward.

"John, with my assistance, can you sprint out of this building?" he queried in a low, quick voice as he levelled his wide grey eyes into his.

"What? I can hardly stay on my feet! Sherlock, why—"

Before John could have the courtesy of finishing his sentence, Sherlock hoisted him off the ground and held him in his arms bridal-style "Allow me to rephrase that!" Sherlock clamoured over the music and the doctor's frenzied protests.

The stereo blared another riff from the synthesiser that ushered forward an urgent electric piano harmony. With one of the more lucid Rogues shouting after them, Sherlock dashed towards the doorway clutching John tightly to his chest. A female voice rose from the stereo with the increasing tempo.

_Humidity is rising_

_Barometer's getting low~_

As they escaped the room, John realised that he had been held captive on the second floor of an abandoned office. Sherlock wasted no time in propelling them both down the stairway as quickly as his coltish legs could manage.

_According to our sources_

_The street's the place to go~_

A deafening shot rang in John's ears just as Sherlock ducked and gripped him closer to his body. As the detective continued his mad sprint forward, John could see the bullet hole in the drywall where Sherlock's head had been. At the top of the staircase, the blood-splotched gangster glared down at them with menace.

_Cause' tonight for the first time_

_Just about half past ten~_

Now panting with exhaustion, Sherlock flung open the front door, and the unfamiliar sting of daylight bathed them. Without any regard for the oncoming traffic, he rushed onward. As though the music were playing from the surrounding rooftops, John could hear it with disturbing clarity.

_For the first time in history_

_It's gonna start raining men!_

Sherlock launched himself onto the unforgiving asphalt, covering John with his full bodyweight as they hit the hard surface. Not a second later, John felt a searing gust of heat, followed by an ear-splitting explosion.

_It's raining men!_

_Hallelujah!_

_It's raining men!_

_Amen!_

Despite the metallic ringing in his ears, the chorus pierced through the air in derisive and crisp precision. Certain that all that remained of the deserted office building was a wreck of coral flames belting black smoke into the sky, John risked lifting his head from the crook of Sherlock's elbow to find the source of the sound. He wished he hadn't; a semi-charred arm that had been torn above the elbow plummeted to the ground centimetres from his face. Other extremities were quick to follow.

_It's raining men!_

_Hallelujah!_

_It's raining men!_

_Amen!_

Now fully sober, John steeled his stomach and looked beyond the shredded remains of the Garrotter Street Rogues that flew through the air. His eyes, tearing up from the hot and scratchy smoke, focussed on a solitary shadow on a neighbouring rooftop. The shadow merely saluted in his direction before shouldering a long rifle over its back and disappearing from view. Before he could register what was happening or even find the damn speaker that was still projecting that sickening tune, Sherlock pushed him back to the asphalt and firmly pressed his head against the broad expanse of his chest.

"Keep your eyes closed, John," whispered Sherlock. And amongst the amalgamation of rampant car alarms, the sick stench of overcooked body tissues, and the horrified screaming, John did just that.

* * *

><p><strong>More to come as soon as I can update, but with the Grad Schoolz, it might not be as frequent as I like. Not giving up on this though!<strong>

**I heart my reviewers!**

**Ju Lara: **I agree with you that Moran gets away with too much in this fandom! Although I really enjoyed writing this particular incarnation of Sebastian. Hope you do too!** Corey5268: **Yay! I'm dragging everyone with me into insanity! And sorry for the cliffhanger ** meredithriddle: **Poor Sherlock, indeed. And I love Dexter :)** notquite. somethingelse: **Thanks for reviewing, and sorry for making you wait so long!** Icy Sapphire15: **We are all morbid. It's okay. You're among friends (that try to kill one another).** CakeBook: **John never gets a break. But honestly, if he did, it wouldn't be half as interesting, now would it?** dmrar: **The joy I get from those hypothetical murder plans...I'm glad you love it too!** .mightier: **Ahhh! I did, see? I did!** rtistyksyko: **Aw, thanks! I can't give up the final murder plot! But I don't think it would be surprisingly mundane either...hm.** Vi-Violence: **I updated! And I'll try to update as much as I can lest the work and science gods interfere!** ACtravels: **Thank you thank you for such a thorough, awesome review! It made me happy and really motivated me to keep up with this. I will finish this story-the plot bunnies won't stop hopping around in my head until I do, so never fear.** PrimaDoctor: **ALSO YAY.

Also thank you to the** 3 Guest reviewers **who took the time to post their thoughts on the story. Taken together, your comments were inspiring, hilarious, and..honestly made me a bit wistful.


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